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THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

JANUARY— JUNE,

1873-

■Z-3<{

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

ENTIRELY NEW SERIES.

VOL. X.

JANUARY-JUKE.

LONDON :
GRANT S: CO., 7« TO 78, TURNMILL STREET, E.C.

■873-

.63

LONDON
GRANT AND CO., PRINTERS, 72-78, TURNMILL STREET, B.C.

Preface.

JHE other day, at the Literary Fund dinner, in an
eloquent and practical address, the Right Hon. W. E.
Gladstone condemned the encouragement too often given
to an aspirant for literary honours simply on the ground
of the disadvantages under which said aspirant had written. The
Premier said that to support and encourage a book simply because
it was written by a mechanic, or by some person who could not be
expected from his position to write a book, was an injury to the man
himself and to society. All literary works should stand on their own
merits, and no man has a right to claim indulgence because of the
educational disadvantages under which his book may be produced.

I commend this practical philosophy to some of my numerous
correspondents. An editor suffers much at the hands of uncom-
missioned contributors; but most from amateur writers, from men
and women and young people who, somehow discovering that they
can turn a rhyme or build up a reasonably good sentence, suddenly
believe they have a call to the world of Letters. Thereupon they
commence to pester editors everywhere ; but as I am here and
there credited with the weakness of editorial courtesy, they all seem
to fix upon me for their first or last efforts at publication.

In many cases their MSS. are accompanied by long confidential
letters, appeals to one's feelings, attacks on one's sympathy. Now
and then I detect something of merit in an amateur article ;
but too often the merit lies in the evident disadvantages of the
circumstances under which the paper has been written. Misled on
this tack,* I return a civil reply and say, " Try again ; you may
succeed." The writer tries again. He does not succeed. I say so.
His MS. goes back. Then I have been unkind; I have raised hopes
only to blight them. Sometimes the MS. is lost or mislaid, the
writer having omitted to put his name or address upon it. Then it
cannot be returned ; and the young author pours out his wrath wildly
upon the editor. I sympathise with him, despite the suffering he
causes ; but I tell him now, as I have told him before, that if he
would retain his literary treasures, he must keep copies of them.
This is easily done ; the manifold letter writer and the copying press
are old institutions.

Another troublesome contributor is the young author whose first

vi Preface.

article is accepted. Seeing himself in print, he thinks he has not
only become famous, but has laid the foundation of his fortune. He
launches out in social expenses ; he suddenly appears in literary
society, and wants to join an Art Club. He has read those wonderful
paragraphs of London Correspondents about the vast sums which
are paid to successful authors ; he expects for his article a cheque
equal to a king's ransom ; like the Scotchman (who made a guinea
joke in Punch, and came from Edinburgh to spend a week in London,
on the strength of having all his expenses paid), he is disappointed.
He gets over this, however, on the hope of becoming a constant
contributor; but finding his other MSS. rejected, he comes to the
conclusion that the editor is jealous of his success, and at the same
time pounces on the discovery, and declares it in writing, that the
editor is not a gentleman. Solemnly I caution this vast crowd of
young and old that literature, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred,
is a forlorn hope. It makes my heart ache to see the pale faces,
the anxious eyes that haunt the outer passages of editorial rooms,
and the offices of publishing houses. Everybody seems to think,
not only that he can write, but that he can live by his pen. The
young aspirant is jostled by an army of parsons and barristers, and
gentlemen in Government employment, educated men not wholly
dependent upon journalism and literature ; as a rule, this active and
clever army writes well ; its industry is enormous ; it makes the pro-
fession utterly impossible for thousands of other outsiders who swarm
u p from the country in the hope of taking a place in the ranks. At
best, literature gives even comparatively successful men but a hard
crust, though Mr. Jacox, in "Aspects of Authorship," very properly
contends that the loaf of bread earned by the competent author is
not so hard and crusty as it was. Nevertheless, he cannot help
quoting some of the best known instances of disappointment, even
among successful men : — " Mr. Carlyle glances grimly at the Heynes
dining on boiled peasecods ; the Jean Pauls on water ; the Johnsons
bedded and boarded on fourpence halfpenny a day. So does Long-
fellow at Johnson and Savage rambling about the streets of London
at midnight, without a place to sleep in ; at Otway, starved like a
dog ; at Goldsmith, penniless in Green Arbour Court. Next to the
* Newgate Calendar,' the biography of authors is the most sickening
chapter in history" In spite of modern successes, I would repeat
the question asked by Thackeray in 1843 : " How much money
has all the literature in England in the Three per Cents. ? " Look in
our own times at the widows of eminent men who are living on
the scanty pittance of the Civil List. I could mention a score of

Preface. vii

modern instances of so-called successful men, leaving their families
in want — not that they were spendthrifts, but simply on account of
the miserable pittance which is the wage even of prosperous writers.
Ellesmere, in " Friends in Council," did not exaggerate the experience
of many clever men now wandering about the streets of London :
" Authorship is the last trade I should think of taking up. Sooner
would I elect to be one of those men who carry advertising boards, like
tabards, before and behind them .... This would be very superior
to making a living by literature." Milverton agreed with Elles-
mere, and it would not be difficult to point out scores of dead and
living illustrations of all that can be said against any man selecting
literature as a profession with the hope of substantial pecuniary
reward. The people of England who buy newspapers and magazines
do not pay for the paper and printing, let alone the authors' fees. In
these enlightened days, when kings and queens even enter the literary
lists with scholars and shoemakers, periodicals and newspapers have
actually to be sold at a loss. It is the tradesman and the shopkeeper,
the merchant, the financier — in short, the advertiser ■, who pays for the
current literature of the day. It is the great pillman, the starchmaker,
the cocoa dealer, the jeweller, the insurance agent, the company
monger, who present palace and cottage with their periodical litera-
ture, with their daily journals, their religious magazines, their literary
papers ; and this is the danger which threatens the independence of
British journalism. It was not so in the early days of newspapers ;
it was not so when Mr. Cave first introduced Sylvanus Urban to the
world. Journalists then had value for their broadsheets, and with all
one's respect and admiration for the press of England, it must be
admitted that the age of cheap journalism has not tended to
strengthen the impartiality of general newspaper criticism.

There are many changes — most of them for the better, it must be
confessed — since »y ancient predecessor wrote his Preface in 1752,
wherein he says, referring to his cleverest and best contributors, —
" Much the greater part of them conceal themselves with such
secrecy, that we correspond with them by the Magazine, and can
make no other than this public acknowledgment for favours, which
are equally the support and honour of our collection." What an
enviable state of things ! How vastly surprised would the writer be
if he could return to editorial duties in the present day for only a
week. I feel sure he would soon desire to go back to the Shades.
Apart from the troubles hinted at in the early part of this article,
one encounter with the semi-professional gentleman who insists on
seeing you, talks to you of good subjects for articles, and then

viii Preface,

swears you commissioned them, and threatens all sorts of legal
proceedings if you do not print them and pay for them . whether
you print them or not, would settle him. He would surely curse
the degeneracy of the age, sigh for the good old times (though they
were bad old times in many respects), and be glad to leave the new
series of the Gentleman's Magazine in the hands of the shilling
editor. *

I feel that I owe an apology to many of my readers for devoting
so much space to what may seem mere personal matter. Perhaps
they may forgive me on the ground that, at all events, this preface is
outside the ordinary and established groove. If it induces any young
man or woman to pause before adopting literature as a profession, it
is worth the printing. In these days, when everybody is to be edu-
cated, and looking to a future in which a scholar will be the rule
and not the exception, I fear authorship must come more and more
to be considered as the luxury of those who can afford to disregard
its pecuniary rewards ; more of a mere help than a crutch ; a thing
to be proud of for its fame, but not to live upon, more especially in
an age of wealth and luxury, when successful business men make
fortunes without apparent effort, while the litterateur struggles
miserably and in vain to keep up as good an appearance as the rich
who patronise him. Of course these words will not discourage the
child of genius burning to use his God-gifted powers ; and I would
be the last to stay his hand. Nevertheless, I warn him ; for what
can he expect when he counts upon his fingers the most successful
of our authors, and carefully studies their most popular books ?

I commend this present volume of the oldest of all magazines to
the friendly criticism of its numerous readers. In the new volume
upon which we are now entering I hope to introduce to their notice,
in addition to the general attractions of the work, some hitherto
unpublished correspondence of Charles Lamb, arranged in the shape
of an article by an authoress of distinction ; and also some interesting
biographical notes of the early life of the late Napoleon III., trans-
lated from the private diary of a Prussian lady, by the Countess of
Harrington. A new novel will follow the short tale, " Making the
Worst of it" ; " Clytie " will run, I hope, through another volume ; the
" Life in London " sketches will be continued ; and I have, in
addition, arranged for the publication of many important and inte-
resting papers in the several departments of history, biography, sports
and pastimes, literature, the drama, and society, from the pens of
writers accustomed to treat such subjects ably, thoughtfully, and
with authority. Joseph Hatton.

Contents.

Buonaparte, The Majorcan Origin of the Family of. By John Leighton,

F.S.A 219

Capital and Labour. An Inquiry into the Law of Conspiracy and the

Rights of the Labourer. By John Baker Hopkins . . . 549

Charles I. A Letter from a Citizen of Another World, to Sylvanus

Urban, Gentleman, of London 444

Charley Slap's Hounds. By W. F. Marshall 424

Cleveland : Royalist, Wit, and Poet. By Edwin Goadby . . . 205

Clytie. A Novel of Modern Life. By Joseph Hatton :—

Chap. I.— On the Brink 237

II. — "Friends or Foes?" 241

III. — In the Organ Loft 244

IV. — The Warning 249

V. — While Tom Mayfield was Waiting 365

VI. — Meeting Calumny Half Way . 372

VII. — Behind the Sunshine and Beneath the Flowers . . . 378

VIII. — An Alliance against Fate 489

IX. — Smoke 494

X. — Fire 496

XI. — Ashes 503

XII. — Alone in London 613

Xm.— Traps and Pitfalls 616

XIV. — Good Samaritans 623

Connaught Man, The. By Alfred Perceval Graves . . . .189

Crispus. A Poetic Romance in Three Parts : —

Part I. 429

n 540

HI .670

x N Contents.

■%

Dead Stranger, The. Translated from the German of Zschokke. By the
Rev. B. W. Savile, M.A. : —

Chape. I.— Ill 265

IV 452

V. — VII. (Conclusion) 554

Duck, My First. By " Pathfinder " * 199

Editorial Mystery, An. By J. H 51

Football. By " Sirius " 385

Garden in Surrey, A. By F. Walford, M.A. 168

Gustave Dore at Work. By Blan chard Jerrold 299

Horseback, On. By A Lady 192

Hunting in the West, The Wind-up of. By W/F. Marshall . . 508

Isles of the Amazons. By Joaquin Miller. Part V 1

Leaves from a Lost Diary. By M. Betham-Edwards, author of " Kitty,"

" Dr. Jacob," &c 10

L'Empereur est Mort. By the Earl of Winchilsea and Nottingham . 479

Life in a Carriage and a Cart. By «« Octogenarian " 702

*t Lion King," Three Months with a 254

London, Life in : —

III. — A Story for Christmas .72

IV. — Forecasting. By Richard Gowing 151

V. — The First Night of the'Session. By Edward Legge . 326

VI.— At Temple Bar 585

VII. — Circles of Society. By Sidney L. Blanchard . . .661

London to the Rocky Mountains, From . . . . . . .38

Love and Death. By G. H. J 451

Making the Worst of it. By John Baker Hopkins : —

Chap. I. — After Ten Years 705

„ II.— The Father's Return 711

„ III. — An Eminent Man-Hunter 717

My Own Room. A Reverie, in Two Parts. By the Rev. J. GoRLE . 593

Number One. A Reminiscence of Last Year's Academy. By J. Ashby-

Sterry 583

Oberland in January, The. By Charles Williams . . . .136

Offenbach in London 25

Plantagenet's Well ; a True Story of the Days of Richard HI. By Lady

C Howard 179

Contents. xi

Pointer and Setter Field Trials. By " Sirius " 629

Poland, A Voice from. Ostrolenka. By the Earl of Ravensworth • 591

"PoorTopsy." By " Pathfinder " 68

Potter of Tours, The. By George Smith 81

Press, The Irish. By T. F. O'Donnell 223

, .. „. , _ { By Charles Bradlaugh .

Republican Impeachment, The. ( fiy John Baker HopKINS %

32
157

Shakespeare's Philosophers and Jesters. By Charles Cowden Clarke :—

I. — Philosophers ' 306

n. — Jesters 392

HI. — Shakespeare's Women ; considered as Philosophers and

Jesters 514

IV. — Shakespeare's Philosophy 634

Smithfield Club Show, The. By"RusTicus" 84

Sporting Guns, Smokeless Explosives for. By Cadwallader Waddy . 62

Stranger than Fiction. By the Author of "The Tallants of Barton,"
" The Valley of Poppies," &c. :—
Chap. XLH. — Of certain Emigrants on Board the Hesperus^ and concern-
ing a well-known melody that led to a delightful

discovery 94

XLHI.— A Storm on the Welsh Coast 98

XLIV.— After the Storm 104

XLV.— An Actor's Holiday 117

XLVI. — How Jacob performed a delicate negotiation on behalf of
Mr. Paul Ferris, together with other interesting infor-
mation 124

XLVH.— The Beginning of the End 129

XLVHL— A Letter from Mr. Horatio Johnson . . . . 336

XLIX.— Closing Scenes 34°

L. — Mr. Bonsall as a Cabinet Minister seeks re-election and is

opposed • 344

IJ. — Which ends this strange, eventful History . , . . . 353

Table^Talk. By Sylvanus Urban, Gentleman 109, 231, 358, 482, 608, 726

Tennyson's Last Idyll. A Study. By the Rev. Dr. Leary, D.C.L. . 76

Texican Rangers, The. By Arthur Clive 57

Thibet, A " Stalk " in. By Fred Wilson f47

xii Contents.

Tichborne Dole, The 262

Valentine, A. * By M. Betham-Edwards 218

Vaterland in Britain. By Walter Saville 696

Venus on the Sun's Face. By R. A. PKOCTOK, B.A. (Cambridge),
Honorary Secretary of the Royal Astronomical Society, Author of
" Saturn," " The Sun," " Other Worlds than Ours," &c. . .681

Verderer of Dean Forest, The. By CHARLES Pebody . . . . 439

Waterloo Cup, The. By «• Sntrus " 292

THE

Gentleman's Magazine

January, 1873.

Isles of the Amazons.

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.
PART V.

Well, we have threaded through and through
The gloaming forests. Fairy Isles,
Begirt in God's eternal smiles,

As fallen stars in fields of blue ;
Some futile wars with subtile love

That mortal never vanquished yet,

Some symphonies by angels set
. In wave below, in bough above,

Were yours and mine ; but here adieu.

And if it come to pass some days

That you grow weary, sad, and you
Lift up deep eyes from dusty ways

Of mart and moneys, to the blue
And pure cool waters, isle and vine,

And bathe you there, and then arise
Refreshed by one fresh thought of mine,

I rest content ; I kiss your eyes,
I kiss your hair in my delight :
I kiss my hand to say " Good night."

May love be thine by sun or moon,
May peace be thine by stormy way
Through all the darling days of May,

Through all the genial days of June,
To golden days that die in smiles
Of sunset on the blessed Isles.

I HAT way is familiar when journeyed in first ?

The new roads are rugged, the pilgrimage hard ;
No storied names lure you, nor deeds as they erst
Allured you in songs of the gray Scian bard.
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. B

The Gentleman s Magazine,

But when spires shall shine on the Amazon's shore,
From temples of God, and time shall have rolled

Like a scroll from the border the limitless wold ;

When the tiger is tamed, and the mono no more

Swings over the waters to chatter and call
To the crocodile sleeping in rushes and fern ;
When cities shall gleam, and their battlements burn

In the sunsets of gold, where the cocoa-nuts fall :

And the mountains flash back from their mantles of snow
The reflection of splendours from tower and dome
Of temples where art has established a home

More royal than aught that the moderns may show :

'Twill be something to lean from the stars and to know
That the engine, red-mouthing with turbulent tongue,

The white ships that come, and the cargoes that go,
We invoked them of old when the nations were young :

'Twill be something to know that we named them of old-
That we said to the nations, Lo ! here is the fleece
That allures to the rest, and the perfectest peace,

With its foldings of sunlight shed mellow like gold :

That we were the Carsons in kingdoms untrod,
We followed the trail through the rustle of leaves,
We stood by the waves where solitude weaves

Her garments of mosses, and lonely as God :

That we have made venture when singers were young,
Inviting from Grecia, from long-trodden lands
That are easy of journeys, and holy from hands

Laid upon by the Masters when giants had tongue :

Yea, rugged the hills, and most hard of defeat
Are the difficult journeys to bountiful song,

Through places not hallowed by fame, and the feet
Of the classical singers, made sacred to song.

Isles of the Amazons.

But prophets should lead, to discover the grand
And the beautiful hidden in quarries of stone ;
Be leaders to point to the fair and unknown,

And the far, and allure to the sweets of a land.

Behold my Sierras ! new mountains of song !

The Andes shall break through wings of the night

As the fierce condor breaks through the clouds in his flight ;

And we here plant the cross. How long ? and how long ?

Aye, idle indeed ! And yet to have dared

On an unsailed sea may deserve some grace. . .
But the harvest will come, and behold, my place

Shall be filled with prophets, to my fullest reward.

I reckon that love is the bitterest sweet
That ever laid hold on the heart of a man,
A chain to the soul, and to slumber a ban,

And a bane to the brain, and a snare to the feet

Who would ascend on the hollow white wings
Of love but to fall ; to fall and to learn,
Like a moth and a man, that the lights lure to burn,

That the roses have thorns, that the honey bee stings ?

I say to you surely that grief shall befall ;
I lift you my finger, I caution you true,
And yet you go forward, laugh gaily, and you

Must learn for yourself, and then mourn for us all.

You had better be drown'd than to love and to dream ;
It were better to sit on a moss-grown stone,
And away from the sun, and forever alone,

Slow pitching white pebbles at trout in the stream,

B 2

The Gentleman s Magazine.

Than to dream for a day, then awake for an age,

And to walk through the world like a ghost, and to start,
Then suddenly stop, with the hand to the heart

Pressed hard, and the teeth set savage with rage.

The clouds are above us, and snowy and cold,
And what is beyond but the steel-gray sky,
And the still far stars that twinkle and lie

Like the eyes of a love or delusions of gold !

Ah ! who would ascend ? The clouds are above.

Aye ! all things perish ; to rise is to fall.
And alack for loving, and alas for love,

And alas that there ever are lovers at all.

And alas for a heart that is left forlorn !

If you live you must love ; if you love, regret —
It were better, perhaps, we had never been born,

Or better, at least, we could well forget

And yet, after all, it is harder to die

Of a broken up heart than one would suppose.

The clouds blow on, and we see that the rose
Of heaven is born of a turbulent sky.

The singer stood forth in the fragrance of wood,
But not as alone, and he chid in his heart,
And subdued his soul, and assumed his part

With a passionate will, in the palms where he stood ;

Then he reached his hand, like to one made strong
In a strange resolve to a questionable good,
And he shook his hair, made free from his mood,

Forgot his silence and resumed his song :

Isles of the Amazons.

" She is sweet as the breath of the Castile rose,
She is warm to the heart as a world of wine,

And as rich to behold as the rose that grows
With its red heart bent to the tide of the Rhine.

" O hot blood born of the heavens above !

I shall drain her soul, I shall drink her up.
I shall love with a searching and merciless love,

I shall sip her lips as the brown bees sup

" From the great gold heart of the buttercup !

I shall live and love ! I shall have my day.
Let the suns fall down or the moons rise up,

And die in my time, and who shall gainsay ?

" What boots me the battles that I have fought
With self for honour ? My brave resolve ;
And who takes note ? The senses dissolve

In a sea of love, and the land is forgot.

" And the march of men and the drift of ships,
And the dreams of fame, and desires for gold.
They shall go for aye, as a tale that is told,

Nor divide for a day ray lips from her lips.

" And a knight shall rest, and none shall say nay,
In a green Isle washed by an arm of the seas,
And walled from the world by the white Andes,

For the years are of age and can go their way."

The sentinel -stood on the farthermost land,
And shouted aloud to the shadowy forms. . . .
" He comes," she cried, " in the strength of storms,"

And struck her shield, and, her sword in hand,

The Gentleman's Magazine.

She cried, " O Queen of the sun-kissed Isle,

He comes as a wind conies, blown from the seas,
In a cloud of canoes, on the curling breeze,

With his shields of tortoise and of crocodile,

" He is girt in copper, with silver spears,
With flint-tipped arrows and bended bows,

To take our blood, though we give him tears,
And to flood our Isle in a world of woes."

She rushed her down where the white tide ran, '
She breasted away where the breakers reeled,

She shook her sword at the foeman's van,
And beat, as the waves beat, sword on shield.

She dared them come like a storm of seas,

To come as the winds come fierce and frantic —
As sounding down to the far Atlantic,

And sounding away to the deep Andes.

Sweeter than swans are a maiden's graces !

Sweeter than fruits are the kisses of morn !

Sweeter than babes is a love new-born,
But sweeter than all are a love's embraces.

She slept at peace in the holy places,
Sacred alone to the splendid Queen ;
She slept in peace in the opaline

Hush and blush of the tropic graces.

And bound about by the twining glory,
Vine and trellis in the vernal morn,
As still and as sweet as a babe new-born,

The brown Queen listens to the old new story.

Isles of the Amazons.

But hark'! her sentry's passionate words,
The sound of shields, and the clash of swords !
And slow she comes with her head on her breast,
And her two hands held as to plead for rest.

Where, O where, are the Juno graces ?

Where, O where, is the glance of Jove,
When the Queen comes forth from the sacred places,

Hidden away in the heart of the grove ?

They rallied around as of old — they besought her,
With swords to the sun and the sounding shield,
To lead them again to the glorious field,

So sacred to Freedom ; and, breathless, they brought her

Her buckler and sword, and her armour all bright
With a thousand gems enjewelled in gold.
She lifted her head with the look of old,

For an instant only ; with all of her might

She strove to be strong and majestic again :
She bared them her arms and her ample breast,
They lifted her armour, they strove their best

To clasp it about her ; but they strove in vain.

It closed no more, but clanged on the ground,
Like the fall of a king, with an ominous sound,
And she cried, " Alas ! " — and she smote her breast —
" For the nights of love and the noons of rest"

And her warriors wondered ; but they stood apart,
And trailed their swords, and subdued their eyes
To earth in sorrow and in hushed surprise,

And forgot themselves in their pity of heart.

8 The Gentleman9 s Magazine.

" 0 Isles of the Sun," cried the blue-eyed youth,
" O Edens pew-made and let down from above !
Be sacred to peace and to passionate love,

Made happy in tears and made holy with truth.

" O gardens of God, new-planted below !

Shall rivers be red ? Shall day be night?"
And he stood in the wood with his face to the foe,

And apart with his buckler and sword for the fight.

But the fair Isle filled with the fierce invader ;
He formed on the strand, he lifted his spears,
Where never was man for years and for years,

And moved on the Queen. She lifted and laid her

Finger-tip to her lips. And O sweet
Was the song of love, and the song new-born,
That the minstrel blew in the virgin morn,

Away where the trees and the soft sands meet.

The strong men leaned and their shields let fall,
And slowly they moved with their trailing spears,
And heads bowed down as if bent with years,

And an air of gentleness over them all.

And the men grew glad as the song ascended,
They leaned their lances against the palms,
And they reached their arms as to reach for alms,

And the Amazons came — and their reign was ended.

They reached their arms to the arms extended,
Put by their swords, and no more seemed sad,

But moved as the men moved, tall and splendid —
Mingled together, and were all made glad.

Then the Queen stood tall, as of old she had stood,
With her face to the sun and her breast to the foe ;
Then moved like a king, unheeding and slow,

And aside to the singer in the fringe of the wood.

Isles of the A mazons.

She led him forth, and she bade him sing :

Then bade him cease ; and the gold of his hair

She touched with her hands ; she embraced him there,

Then lifted her voice and proclaimed him King.

And the men made fair in their new-found loves,
They all cried " King ! " and again and again,
Cried " Long may they live, and long may they reign,

And be true to their loves as the red-billed doves :

" Ay, long may they live, and long may they love,
And their blue-eyed babes with the years increase,
And we all have love, and we all have peace,

While the seas are below or the sun is above.

" Let the winds blow fair and the fruits be gold,
And the gods be gracious to King and Queen,
While the tides are gray or the Isles are green,

Or the moons wax new, or the moons wane old ! "

Finis.

Leaves from a Lost Diary.

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS, AUTHOR OF " KITTY," " DR. JACOB," &c.

June l$tk, Morning.

'T is hardly light, and yet I am up and dressed, counting with
anxious heart the hours that must elapse before my husband's
return. All night long I lay awake, trying to see some way
of escape out of the misery and shame before me; but
could discover none. Before nightfall he will be here, anc} will have
learned all from my own lips. As I look at myself in the glass I
start back, horrified at the ghost of the once happy creature I used
to see there. Will Harry recognise in this woe-begone, hollow-eyed
spectre the young wife he left a few months ago ? Were my hair
only grey I should look quite old.

How shall I tell him ? In the first hour of his home-coming, or a
little later, when we sit before the fire in the twilight ? Will he send
<-;me away from him, and bid me never cross his path again ? Will he
let me stay in his home still, his wife in name, in all else his burden,
his curse, his enemy ? I do not know ; I have never yet seen my
husband angry.

As I look back I can recall the beginning of temptation. We had
been married only a few months when we went to London, and
Harry introduced me to his friends and relations. He was not rich,
and in marrying a country vicar's daughter without a penny had
affronted his own family, who had hitherto boasted of having no
poor relations belonging to them. I was now that poor relation.
" Put on all your finery," he said to me a day or two before my
introduction was to take place ; " my cousin John's wife is a grand
personage, and I do not wish her to say that I have married a dowdy."
I ransacked my poor little wardrobe with dismay. What else could
I be but a dowdy ? I cried with vexation as I saw how poor a figure
I should make at Lady Mary's in my cheap silk dress and coral
ornaments. No ; to go in such attire was impossible. I sat on my
trunk, debating in my mind which of two things was best to do — to
go sullenly to Harry and say that unless he could give me some
money for a new dress I must stay at home, or, what was much
easier, to procure a dress and jewels without saying anything about the

Leaves from a Lost Diary. 1 1

matter, and to pay for them by quarterly instalments of my allow-
ance. Surely there would be nothing wrong in that ! When Harry
promised to give me fifty pounds a year he made no bargain as to
the manner of spending it I put on my bonnet and shawl and
went straight to a jeweller's shop, whither Harry had taken me to
choose my betrothal ring. The man recognised me, and when I
asked, blushing and hesitating, if I might pay for the things I wished
to buy in a short time hence, he assured me nothing would be more
agreeable to him. I was persuaded to take away what seemed,
amidst the splendour before me, a very modest set of pearl and
ruby ornaments ; then I went to a milliner and ordered a white satin
dress, returning home intoxicated with the foretaste of my triumphs.

All that Harry said on seeing me ready dressed to go with him
was, " So ; you have got some new clothes — and they well become
you ! But you must make your allowance do, my poor little girl,
and not get into trouble." I suppose the bare suspicion of debt
just occurred to him. This was the beginning of harm. My first
appearance was successful, and Harry came away better pleased
with me than ever.

" It is highly desirable that you impress my relations favourably,"
he said, as we drove home. "They are all rich, and half of them are
childless" — and then he stopped, as if shocked at his own suggestion-
It was a worldly thought, but I could not help dwelling upon it ; and
the more I saw of the luxurious world outside our own, the more
discontented I felt. Bouquets, flowers, jewels, and perfumes never
tired me. I looked upon our little home as a prison-house ; and
Harry, who had the reputation of being a wit, liked society for
different reasons, and was welcome wherever he went. Thus we
soon saw ourselves dragged into a round of dinners, soire'es, and
balls.

I suppose jewels excite the same passion in women as cards and
wine do in men. I know that from the first time of procuring those
fatal ornaments I felt an insatiable craving for others. Two or
three gifts from my husband's aunts, mostly antiquated ear-rings and
brooches, did not satisfy me. I wanted something more in keeping
with my youth, that youth of which I had heard nothing in my
country home, but which was always being praised now; to have
smooth cheeks, red lips and dimples, seemed a virtue among
my husband's relations, and to compensate in some degree for my
sinful poverty; they petted me and flattered me — especially the
men — till I took great credit to myself for being pretty, and thought
it only right that I should do justice to such good qualities. Thus

1 2 The Gentleman s Magazine.

it came about that from small beginnings I grew to be overwhelmed
with debt. I never got a new dress or ornament without making
some virtuous resolve, just as upon the heel of any poor little
economy I was sure to commjt some fresh extravagance. There was
always the hope that Harry's income would increase. It seemed
impossible that Government would let us go on starving much longer
upon six hundred a year ! Again, there was the chance of a legacy
any day. When real anxiety stared me in the face, it was staved oft
with such arguments as these ; though for the most part I lived in
happy unconcern. A year ago I began to be uneasy because I was
asked to pay a milliner by whom I had at first been begged to get into
debt. Harry was just then very much worried about his own affairs,
and I felt that I would rather part with every one of my beloved
jewels than go to any of his family. I racked my brain, and at last
could only hit upon my sister Janey as the person likely to help me.
She kept house for my father, and though they had only a hundred
and fifty pounds a year to live upon, they were so careful that they
always had a little to give away to the poor. Janey's answer and five
pounds came back by return of post. " Dearest Lucy," she wrote,
" I send all I have ; but I dare not mention what you have done to
our father. It would break his heart."

That letter made me laugh and cry. Kind, simple Janey ! What
was such a sum as five pounds to poor debt-burdened me ? I felt half
disposed to send it back, and only refrained because I knew how
greatly it would vex my sister. The milliner was appeased by some
device for a time, however, and then my worries began afresh. Now
it was a jeweller, now a hairdresser, now a lace-cleaner, who showed
growing signs of uneasiness. Again and again, I was on the point of
going to my husband and confessing all, but could not summon
courage. At last he was sent abroad for a few months on official
business, and I determined somehow to set things right before he
came home. How the time has passed I cannot tell. It seems only
yesterday that there remained a long reprieve before me, but now
it is gone ! Looking back, I feel that if I had strained every nerve I
might still have avoided this disgrace. I might have urged upon the
jewellers to take back their goods. I might have humbled myself
before some of my husband's relations, and borrowed the necessary
money of them. It seems to me, as I sit here in despair, that I might
have done a hundred things to avert the ruin hanging over me. Oh !
father, father ! what would you say if you could see your poor little Lucy
now? Would you believe her if she told the reason of her tears and
self-abasement ? As I write this, the remembrance of my wedding-

Leaves from a Lost Diary. . 1 3

day comes back to me ; the pride of it, the joy of it, the hope of it !
My father could hardly have felt prouder had he married me to a
prince. Harry was so handsome, so clever, so well-born ! Com-
pared to ourselves, too, he seemed quite rich, and whenever he took
me home on a visit, we were looked upon as grand folks by all the
neighbours. Ah, me ! how shall I ever bear to go home again ?

Evening. — Whilst I was writing this morning Harry came. He
had travelled all night in order to get home a few hours sooner,
having great news to communicate to me. I listened without a word,
and in his elation he did not notice how I trembled. I had never
before seen him so gay and so eager.

" Lucy," he cried, " Fortune smiles upon us at last, and if we
choose, the days of our poverty and insignificance are over. I have
had a Government appointment in India and a thousand a year
offered me. Yes or no ? Shall we stay here, beggars, or go to a new
country, and live in ease all the rest of our lives ?"

There was not a trace of the indifference and coldness of manner
habitual with him as he said this, and, without waiting for my answer,
he went on enthusiastically: —

" You, Lucy, will be a little queen out there, and I shall no longer
be a mere drudging clerk, a bond slave of routine. I have always
been ambitious, as you know, and at last I see a chance of doing
something with my life. But what is the matter? you are white as
death. Oh! child, what can have happened?"

" I am not ill, Harry ; don't be frightened ; but I have done some-
thing very wrong, and the dread of telling you has made me like
this."

He dropped my hand, and turning very pale, scrutinised me for a
second, I know not with what dreadful thought in his mind; then we
sat down side by side on the sofa, and I told him as best I could.

" How much do you owe altogether?" he asked.

" Fifteen hundred pounds," I faltered out

" Fifteen hundred pounds ! Income of two years and a half ! Oh,
Lucy!"

That was all he said, but his manner of saying it I shall never
forget. Then he left me, saying that he must have a quarter of an
hour to himself to think of what could be done ; and at the end of
that time he came back to me.

" Lucy," he said, quite calmly, and almost without looking at me,
" to accept that post is now impossible. I cannot begin a new life

14 The Gentletnaris Magazine.

with a clog of debt round my neck ; and moreover, it would be dis-
honourable. The best thing we can do is to give up housekeeping
for the present. You can stay with your father ; I will ask to be sent
abroad again for a few months ; and by this means we may set things
straight in time. Take what books and clothes you like with you to
the vicarage, because all the other things will, of course, be sold."

I stood aghast.

"Have you anything better to suggest?" he asked in the same
calm voice.

" Oh ! Harry, must we be separated after this long absence^ Must
you give up that appointment ?" I asked with suppressed tears.

" I am sure it is better that we should be separated," he answered ;
" and as to the appointment, I would rather lose the viceroyalty of
India than go about borrowing money to pay my wife's debts with.
No, Lucy, we have a little pride left us yet"

With that he turned to go, looking back on the threshold to add :
"You had better apprise your father of your arrival by telegraph, and
go to-night."

"Won't to-morrow do ?" I said. "My father will think something
terrible has happened by such a sudden appearance."

" And has nothing terrible happened ? Such as the truth is, we
must look it in the face. We are ruined, Lucy."

He took out his watch.

" It is now quite early, only mid-day. You can surely pack your
clothes by six o'clock, when I will be back, if possible, to take you
to the station. I must go out at once."

He went away, and in less than two hours I got the following
letter : —

" Dear Lucy, — It is impossible for me to be home soon enough
to see you off. Your maid will do it very well. I enclose twenty
pounds, and will send you as much more in two months' time : but
please make it last as long as that I have telegraphed to your
sister. God bless you. " Harry."

I read over those three kind words — " God bless you !" again and
again, trying to console myself with them for the severity of the rest.
Was my punishment greater than I deserved ? No ; how could that
be, after deceiving him as I had done ? I felt rather that if he went
for a year without forgiving me I should still have no right to
complain ; but I longed to say that, to have his assurance that
by-and-by all would be with us as of old. I could not bear the
thought that another long parting was before us ; and, as yet, I had
said nothing about my shame and sorrow.

Leaves from a Lost Diary. 1 5

I had to leave off writing to get ready for my journey, and now I
am home again. What Harry had said in his telegram I did not
know, but I saw from Janey's face, when she met me at the station,
that she guessed something was wrong. She said very little as we
walked home in the summer twilight — wild roses shedding perfume —
nightingales singing — the evening star shining — everything peaceful
but my heart. Janey whispered, as we reached the little garden gate,
" Lucy, darling, let us say as little as we can to frighten father. He
is much feebler than when you were here last."

" Did Harry tell you— all?" I asked.

" Hush, there is father," she said, and the next moment I was in
my father's arms, and he was crying partly from joy to see me again
and partly from some vague suspicion that I had come because I was
in trouble. We sat down to supper, as usual, in the homely little
parlour, all three trying to be cheerful. After prayers — which Janey
read now because of our father's failing voice — he blessed us both,
and said to me : —

" Trust in God, Lolo " — my pet home-name — " and do your duty
to your husband, then all will come right in time."

" Father suspects that you and Harry have quarrelled," Janey said,
when we were alone in the little old-fashioned bed room we had
occupied as children. " Oh ! Lolo, is that so ?"

Harry, then, had not told her. For a moment I hesitated — but for
a moment only. I could not deceive my sister Janey, who had loved
me from childhood with a perfect love ; and with cheek laid to cheek,
and arms entwined, we sat together and I confessed all. Janey,
instead of reproaching, tried to comfort and strengthen me by hold-
ing out a hope of atonement and reconciliation. She said she was
sure that Harry would soon forgive if he saw me determined to amend,
and she blamed me, though in the tenderest manner, for not having
prepared him by a letter, instead of permitting him to come home
buoyed up with hope and expectation. "No man," she said,
" could help feeling it hard that the very good fortune he had longed
for, when put within hand's reach, should be dashed aside, perhaps
for ever, by his own wife — especially a wife who owes all to her
husband, as you do." Janey went on in the same tone of quiet
reproach. "Think how penniless you went to Harry, and how
generous he was. Why, even your wedding gown was his gift, and in
everything he behaved as liberally as a man could do. But you can
help him to get clear of difficulties. Send back that twenty pounds
to begin with; we are rich enough to entertain our Lolo, and perhaps
you and I may even devise some plan of earning a little."

1 6 The Gentleman's Magazine.

With these last comforting words she left me, and after having
written for an hour I feel as if I could go to sleep. When I am
happy again I shall not want to keep a diary, but during Harry's
absence I feel it like a friend in sympathy with me. I dared not speak
of my troubles to any one. If things never do come right between us
two I will keep what I have written, and Harry will read it when I am
dead and forgive me.

June 2%th.

How dreary and unfamiliar seems the old home life to me now !
What happens one day happens the next, and no more important
event ever takes place than an invitation to the neighbouring rectory
or a village funeral. I wonder at Janey's cheerfulness as she gets up
every morning to the same dull round of duties — helping in the Sun-
day school, reading to the old women, attending to her garden, and
so on. She never seems to think that there is another world outside
this — a world of bouquets and music, balls and operas; and looks
distressed whenever I recall it. " Try to make yourself happy with
simple pleasures," she says to me again and again, " and in helping
others. There is the secret of a really contented mind." What
simple pleasures can I make myself happy with ? And what
can I do to help others — I mean Harry? Janey has racked her
brain to discover some method of earning money, and the only
one we have hit upon will bring in just twenty-five pounds
a year — that is, by having the little girls of some neighbours here
every day to teach. At first Janey would not hear of my helping
her ; Harry would be vexed, she said ; but I insisted upon teaching
music, for which Harry had given me masters in London ; and now
we teach three dull children every morning for the sake of ten
shillings a week ! The only thing I can smile at is the contrast
between our ambition and our achievement. I dare not let poor
Janey see this, for she is always hopeful

I wish I could be happy, but I never wake in the morning without
longing that the day was already at an end. We have prayers at eight
o'clock, then breakfast, teach and do parish work till dinner-time, after
which we sit in the summer-house with our books and needlework.
On Sundays we put on our best clothes and go twice to church. This
is our ordinary life, and in spite of father's kindness and Janey's devo-
tion, I weary of it — I almost hate it.

And all this time Harry does not write !

To-night Janey came into our room pale and trembling. I was
sitting on the bed in the twilight — we go to bed so early that we

Leaves from a Lost Diary. 1 7

want no candles — thinking how much pleasanter it would be to be
dressing for a ball at that hour, when she sat down beside me and
began to cry.

" Lolo," she said, " father knows all. I have tried to keep it from
him, but he heard something that awakened his suspicions when at
the rector's this afternoon, and on being questioned I could not
deceive him."

My heart sank within me ; to have Harry bitter and unforgiving
seemed punishment enough. Janey went on, very sadly : —

" I never told father anything except that you and Harry had got
into money difficulties and had not been quite happy together of late,
and he naturally guessed it was your husband who was in the wrong.
You he never suspected — his youngest, his favourite." Here she
clasped me close with many kisses. " But now there is nothing to
conceal, Lolo, and we must bear his sorrow as best we can."

" Is he very angry ?" I asked.

" Oh, Lolo ! was our father ever angry with us when we did wrong
as children ? He is grieved and ashamed, that is all. He says that
he can never lift up his head again."

" Janey, let me go away. I will ask Harry to take me in, or I will
earn my living as a governess. I will beg in the streets rather than
bring disgrace upon you all."

" As if we minded disgrace or anything so long as we could make
things right between you two ! Do you think Harry would accept
aid from him ?" Janey asked, in a timid voice.

"Never, never!"

" Because there is the hundred pounds he has saved up, besides a
small sum deposited in the bank. Don't you think you could per-
suade Harry to take this little help from us ? It is so very little."

" I will not ask him," I answered. " It would be mean to rob you
of all the money you have in the world. No, Janey, don't want me
to do that."

Janey said no more, and we went to bed, but I think neither of us
got much sleep that night The next morning was Sunday, such a
perfect summer Sunday that it seemed as if every one must be
happy ! The birds were singing, the roses were out, the soft tinted
clouds were sailing across the bright blue sky ; the bells were ringing.
As I opened my window, I saw father walking about the garden with
his head bent down drearily. I dressed as fast as I could, and went
down to him.

He kissed me as usual, and said he was tired. Would I sit down

in the summer-house with him till breakfast was ready? We sat
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. c

1 8 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

*>

down, Janey kissing her hand to us from the breakfast-parlour,
which she was putting in order.

" Dear Janey !" father said ; " never was a more devoted child than
she." Then he turned to me and said, as if apologising for what
looked like reproach, "And you, Lolo, have always been good to
your father." We clasped each other's hands, and were both full of
thoughts we hardly knew how to utter. At last father began, now in
a voice that was heavy with tears :

"You must try henceforth to be as good to your husband, my dear.
I don't ask more of you "

" Oh, father ! How can I make amends for what I have done ?
and if I could, Harry would never forgive me."

" Lolo, I know it is very hard to make amends for wrong doing ;
but amends must be made — first to God, then to our fellow-creatures,
without thinking of their forgiveness towards ourselves. Your
husband has indeed cause to be angry."

" But surely not to be angry always, father ? " I said, passionately.
"What I did was done without thinking; I never meant to ruin him."

"It is no excuse for sin that we rush into it, wilfully blind to the
consequences."

" Oh ! father, do you call my folly a sin ? "

" Folly is sin," father went on, " and the least wise of us have
rules of conduct imprinted on our hearts by God that we cannot
violate without knowing it But I do not want to chide you, Lolo ;
I only want you to see that your husband's anger is justifiable."

" How can I soften it ?" I cried in the same vehement tone. " He
does not write, he does not come, he gives me no opportunity of
telling him what I feel "

"Listen, Lolo, I have thought of a plan for bringing you two
together again. I have made up my mind to go to London to-
morrow morning, taking what money I have with me. I shall see
your husband ; I shall tell him — shall I not ? — that you want to go
back to him, to share his anxieties and privations, and to be hence-
forth his good, true, helpful wife."

Here Janey called us to breakfast, and nothing more was said
then about the proposed journey till I told her of it on our way to
church. She merely said : —

" Father is sure to do what is kind and wise."

Then we went through the day's duties as usual, teaching the
catechism in the Sunday school, Janey leading the choir, I playing
the harmonium ; then coming home to cold dinner afterwards, and
quiet reading in the garden. On the whole it was a cheerful day.

Leaves from a Lost Diary. 19

Monday, — My father set off to London early this morning, Janey
and I carrying his cloak and bag to the station. He persisted in
travelling third-class, nodding adieu to us quite cheerfully from the
hot, dusty, crowded carriage. We walked home without speaking.
I do not know, as little could Janey guess, all that I feared. We did
not say a word about fathers errand throughout the day. And what
a long day it was ! Our little scholars had a holiday, so we had only
parish work and the housekeeping to attend to. Whilst Janey went
her rounds I ironed our muslin dresses and father's shirts, and after
dinner she asked me to play to her. I flew joyfully to the old piano,
for music was now my only pleasure, and, quite forgetting poor
Janey's favourite pieces, practised some new music till she called me
to her. The long afternoon was gone !

" What extraordinary music you have been playing," Janey said,
good-naturedly, " but I must have my tunes after tea all the same."
We had quite a happy evening, and did not go to bed till late. There
seemed so many things to talk about on that first evening we had
been alone since my marriage. The next morning I was up and
dressed by six o'clock, wondering how the hours would pass till our
father's return at midday. Janey proposed that, as she had a little
shopping to do at Bridgewood, our market town, we should walk
there directly after breakfast, and accompany father home by rail. I
caught at the idea joyfully, and by eight o'clock we set off on our
three-mile walk.

How welcome seemed the stir and noise of even quiet little
Bridgewood after the seclusion of the last few weeks ! But as we
passed the gay shop-windows, displaying jewellery, bonnets, and
shawls, I turned suddenly cold and sick, remembering that for such
trumpery as this I had made myself, and all dear to me, ashamed
and unhappy. When we reached the station, however, and I caught
a glimpse of father's white head in a third-class compartment, I ran
towards it with a feeling of hope.

We had just time to find seats when the train moved off. The

carriage was crowded, and we were separated from father, so that

talking was out of the question ; and what with the heat, noise, and

discomfort, I almost forgot my suspense. When we got out father

asked for a little water, and we took him into the station-master's

parlour, as he seemed quite overcome with the heat. "lam afraid

the journey to London this weather has been too much for the vicar,"

the good station-master said, anxiously. " Had we not better borrow

Mr. Jones's gig to drive him to the vicarage ?"

" No, no, thank you; indeed, I am quite refreshed," father said, and

c 2

20 The Gentleman 's Magazine.

taking Janey's arm, set out ; I, carrying his little bag, walked on the
other side. I guessed all now. His mission must have failed, or he
would have spoken at first.

When we were safe out of hearing he stopped a moment, took
each of us by the hand, and said in a trembling voice, " God bless
you, my children. I have done my best, but that has failed.
You must comfort each other."

We walked home very sadly. On the threshold my father took
me in his arms and kissed me, unable to speak. I knew what he
wanted to say — dear father !

It was a bitter day. I cannot bear to write of it

Later, Janey told me that father had seen Harry, and that he had
coldly, though courteously, refused his money, and also his mediations
on my behalf. What exactly took place between the two we never
knew, but I felt sure, from the little my father said, that Harry must
have behaved to him in a proud, hard manner. How could I help
resenting such behaviour? The more I thought of it the more I
blamed my husband, and the less I felt disposed to make any more
attempts at reconciliation.

December 1st,

Weeks and months have passed, bringing nothing but trouble.
That journey to London made our father very ill, and, though
he got over it, he has never been the same since. Sometimes
Janey and I fear that he will have to give up the Sunday duties
altogether, in which case we must engage a curate, a great expense
to us. His memory seems to be going gradually, and we sit nervously
through the services, dreading lest he should make some painful
blunder. The poor people are very good, and do not grumble when
the sermon is omitted, or when Farmer Jones reads the lessons ;
but of course this cannot go on much longer. Yesterday a child was
buried, and at the last moment Janey had to send off for a neigh-
bouring clergyman to officiate, the funeral having to wait till he came.
To-day there is a baptism, and very likely that will have to be put off
too. Poor Janey's hair has grown grey with so many anxieties. And
I feel sometimes as if I ought to wish myself dead, being the occa-
sion of them all.

Meantime, Harry has only written two short letters ; in the first
he said that he had so far settled affairs as to be able to accept the
temporary post abroad he had before filled; and in the second,
which came a few months later, and which was more cheerful in tone,
that he was gradually paying off our debt, and hoped to be clear in
two years' time.

Leaves from a Lost Diary. 2 1

There was not a word of tenderness, not a hope held out to me of
reconciliation ; and I could only answer, him in his own key. Of
what use to humble myself a second time in vain ?

We try to make the best of things, but the prospect is dreary.

December 8/A.

This morning, as Janey glanced over the newspaper, she let it fall
from her hands with a sudden start. Harry's eldest brother had died
abroad suddenly, and my husband was now the head of the house,
and the possessor of an estate. My father and Janey were almost wild
with joy, seeing in this turn of affairs certain and speedy reconcilia-
tion between Harry and myself. His brother we did not know, and
we could but think of ourselves just then. I shut myself up in my
room, and tried to realise my new position. It was not all exultation
that I felt after a little while.

I had pictured to myself quite another kind of regeneration in
store for myself, and another kind of forgiveness from my husband,
and thought how good it would be to share the burdens I had placed
upon his shoulders : to show, by every possible act of forethought and
self denial, how entirely I had repented of my folly, and how deter-
mined I was upon atoning for it. To be suddenly rich, free from the
necessity of sacrifice, to have my husband compelled against his will
to be generous. I could not bear the thought of it

He would fetch me to his new home and coldly ignore all that had
passed ; he would never reproach me either in word, thought, or deed.
He would never let the world know what had divided us. Of this
much I felt assured. But would he now believe in the sincerity of
my penitence ? Would he credit without the testimony of facts that
I was the wiser for my sorrow ? Yet to look at the other side of the
picture was pleasant. Harry loved leisure, ease, elegance, and I
could but think that in time we should be happier for having all these.
Poverty had not made us generous or good, perhaps prosperity might
do so; and if, in time to come, Heaven sent us children to share our
good fortune, what husband and wife need be happier than we two ?

I was roused from these thoughts by Janey, who wanted me to
help her in making up the Christmas doles for the poor people. She
seemed rather frightened now at the excess of her own rejoicing. "We
can't be quite sure how Harry may receive the news," she said ; " he
may still prefer not to come to England yet awhile, and, after all, we
ought to wait till we hear more." That day passed, and the next, and
no news came of him. I listened breathlessly at every sound of
carriage wheels. I made an excuse to go to the station whenever a

2 2 The Gentleman's Magazine.

London train was to come. I never heard the garden gate click
without expecting him.

Nothing has happened, as I thought. A short, cold note came to-
day from my husband, saying that, under the circumstances, it is
better he should fetch me as soon as possible, and that he hopes to
be here by Christmas. This is all. Not a word to intimate that his
heart is softening towards me.

We were just sitting down to our poor little Christmas dinner,
decorated with holly in honour of our single guest, the neighbouring
curate, who has dined with us since my childhood, when Harry arrived.
As we had heard nothing since that first letter, we had not looked for
him, and Janey and my father were quite ashamed of the poverty of
our Christmas fare. " We would, at least, have had a turkey," poor
Janey said, trying to improve the appearance of the table, whilst
father went to the door, and received our visitor with grave cere-
moniousness. I drew back trembling and weeping. He came in
calmly, kissed me on the cheek, shook hands cordially with the
others ; then we reseated ourselves at the dinner-table, as if nothing
had happened.

"It is but poor fare we have to offer you, sir," my father said.
" Had you apprised us of your coming, we should have killed the
fatted calf for so welcome a guest." This formal speech put every-
thing wrong, and poor Janey, in trying to improve matters, only made
them worse. We got through the dreary little dinner as best we
could ; after that, things mended a little. When my father rose to go
to his study, Harry seemed to notice for the first time how feeble and
changed he was, and, with a touched expression, gave him his arm.
The two talked a little, then Harry came back to me.

" Lucy," he said, " I have told your father that I am sorry for ~
having been hard upon you. Let us think no more of the past, but
make the best we can of the present."

He immediately began talking of his plans for the future, and said
that he must return in two days' time, as our presence in London
was necessary. I tried again and again to bring him to talk of our-
selves, but I saw that he had steadfastly set his face against anything
like an explanation. And as it did not come then, it is not likely to
come at all. Ah, me ! can I show in my life what Harry has never
allowed me to express in words, the remorse that makes me at times f
feel miserable in the midst of our prosperity ? Will he ever know
how sorry I am for the suffering I have caused ?

Leaves from a Lost Diary. 23

It was very hard to leave my father and Janey. They had shared my
troubles, but were to have no part in my good fortune. They are
very proud, and though we have urged them to share of our abun-
dance, they will not do so. They are too high-spirited to accept
anything from the man their Lucy has wronged.

This is another reason why as yet I find our new wealth rather a
dreary thing. I have always in my mind's eye the picture of my
old home — Janey anxiously trying to eke out the scanty income, my
father growing feebler and feebler and wanting numberless comforts
he cannot have.

But I cannot despair of things coming right in time. My husband
and I are trying our best to do what is right without thinking of our-
selves ; and every day the task seems easier. His old confidence in
me is gradually coming back, and, with that, will not the old affection
come too ?

As I have no longer any secrets from him, I close my diary.

Offenbach in London.

ACQUES OFFENBACH, whatever be his merits or
demerits, must certainly be counted among those who
have helped " to increase the public stock of harm-
less pleasure." Few have enjoyed such a universal
popularity : and the " Grande Duchesse, " with its tunes
and situations, was perhaps the best known " thing " of
art or politics in the world. Even the most piquant and
sensational piece of news was scarcely known so well
or travelled over such a distance. During that strange season of
delusion, when emperors and sultans were crowding to Paris, certain
of these august personages were said to have telegraphed on their
journey for a box at the Varie'te's, where Schneider was reigning.
Setting aside all shaking of heads and sagacious condemnation by the
professors, such enormous success deserves at least recognition, and
the world is the author's debtor for thus "increasing the public
stock of pleasure." Rossini, introducing his last work with an affected
modesty, might say that it was neither "in the style of Bach nor
of Offen-bach" — hinting that the first was highest, the last lowest in
the musical scale. Fdtis in his great critical work might be
contemptuously arrogant in his judgment of one he considered a mere
musical scribbler. But still the man who could address all countries
in the one tongue and find it exquisitely relished, and who has
contrived hours of airy enjoyment for the world, is not to be so lightly
dismissed.

The Offenbachian opera represents a distinct department of
human enjoyment, and is a development of a particular form of
social "fun." An observer is present at a party where are wits and
savants deeply skilled in knowledge of human experience and
human nature, and where character is made under this treatment to
exhibit itself in a natural and genuine fashion. There he finds a
display of comedy. In another set he hears droll remarks, wild,
spontaneous wit, strange stories and incidents, which make him roar,
- and is entertained with farce. But there is a third and rarer kind of
merry meeting, where the performers, in boisterous spirits, become
extravagant — can be content with nothing but the most far-fetched
and grotesque conceits. Their most effective subjects are of the

Offenbach in London. 25

gravest and most solemn kind, whose gravity and solemnity are found
tedious and oppressive uf the ordinary course of things. Their aim,
then, is not merely to bring down to a natural level, but to set such
things as much below that level as they were once above it : and the
sudden degradation produces a most ridiculous effect Such is
the aim of masqued ball costumers, where ridiculous noses and
distorted uniforms express the intention in a coarse way. Such is
the meaning of those mock official ceremonies on " crossing the line,"
on the admission of new hands in the old prisons, and other such
rites. There is no logic, no coherence ; boisterous spirits and gaiety
are the chief essentials. This in a rude way is the foundation of the
opera bouflfe ; and Offenbach, though supposed to be confined to
his musical illustration, must be a burlesque humourist of a high
order. This is shown by the class of writers he has called into
existence to supply him with stories, and who felt that in him they
had found an exact interpreter. This, too, is evident in his face,
which has a roguish, naive, and even a Voltairean expression — a
union of grave finesse and quaintness, with the farceur in ambuscade.
The double eyeglass suggests a mock professional air.

His career suggests advancement through address. He was „
born at Cologne, and is but fifty years old. He came to Paris in
1842 as a violoncello player, and though he failed in that department,
succeeded in becoming leader of the orchestra at the Thditre
Francais in five years. It was not long before his taste for the
peculiar line of composition in which he was to become famous was
developed. His first efforts were the setting of some fables of
La Fontaine — which, if not very deep, were at least gay and
sparkling. The very choice of such a subject shows a true relish for
comedy, and the famous fables, if married to suitable music, would
become at once a sort of opera bouflfe. This taste developed yet
more and more, and in 1855 he opened the little theatre which
is at the end of the Passage Choiseul, and which he and his
works have made famous as the " Bouflfes Parisiens." The notion
was clearly suggested by the style of music — not the music by
the notion. A comic story had often been set to music; but in the
opera bouflfe it wore a humorous tone of mind — an exaggerated
burlesque that was expressed in music Again, the musical ex-
pression aimed at giving the tone of a situation, not of a narrative.
An example of this could be given in " Les Deux Aveugles," one of
the earliest of his attempts, and lately presented at the Gaiety. Two
blind men meet on a bridge to beg. Both being impostors, and each
believing that the other is really afflicted, a most absurd situation

26 The Gentleman 's Magazine.

arises, worked up after the Box and Cox fashion. Each has his
musical instrument — one a trombone, the other a fiddle or guitar ;
and the characteristics of such rude music under such conditions are
translated into real music with great art. In short, the " fun " flows
from the situation as logically as a conclusion follows the premises.
Having once struck the vein, the stream of his pieces began to flow
in a full and rapid current. Here is a tolerably complete list repre-
senting the work of seventeen years : — " Les Deux Aveugles," " Une
Nuit Blanche," " Bataclan," "Le Violoncelliste," for the year 1855 ;
"Trombalcazar," "Le Postilion en Cage," "La Rose de Saint Flour,"
" Le Financier et le Savetier," " La Bonne d'Enfant," in 1856 ; and
" Crochefer" in 1857. In 1861 came " Orphe'e aux Enfers," his first
important work, which took the town by storm, and, after being per-
formed three hundred times, went the round of civilised Europe.
In the same year was given " Les Trois Baisers du Diable,"
" L'Apothicaire et le Perruquier," and " Le Roman Comique ; " in
1862 "Monsieur et Madame Denis," and in 1864-5, "La Belle
Helene," another European success. In 1866 followed "LaBarbe
Bleue;" in 18C7, "La Grande Duchesse," the most famous of his
works; in 1868, "La Penchole," "LTle de Tulipatan," and
" Genevieve de Brabant." In 1869 came " Les Brigands " and " La
Princesse de Trel>izonde." The disastrous war of 1870 was not
favourable to the enjoyment of opera bouffe, but he resumed work
in 187 1 with "Fortunatus" and nearly half a dozen other pieces,
besides supplying music to Sardou's " Le Roi Carotte." It would be
difficult to enumerate all his minor trifles, such as " Le Manage aux
Lanternes " and others ; but there remains the extraordinary feat of his
having scored at least six great triumphs in succession, commencing
with the " Belle Helene." It is a great proof of the theory that good
pieces supply good actors, that all his " hits " have been inspired by
perfect successes in the way of humorous subjects. Where he has
found "weak-kneed" pieces the music has not "walked," and has
proved " weak-kneed " itself.

"La Belle Helene" is perhaps the freshest and most truly humorous
of all his works, and the book itself is conceived in the genuine spirit
of legitimate burlesque, for it does not assume that these Greek
characters were so remote and unfamiliar to us that the only method
of presenting them would be under the most grotesque and impossible
conditions of dress and behaviour. The true and natural method
would be to assume that they were men and women like those of the
present time, and fit to be ridiculed as our contemporaries could be
ridiculed. The result was an interest and a far more racy description

Offenbach in London. 2 7

of "fun," while the earnestness of treatment was strengthened by
snatches of sweet and taking music, which gave a dignity and growth to
the whole. We say nothing of the improprieties for which so many
of the OfTenbachian pieces are remarkable, because these may be
often looked on as vulgar excrescences. There is never anything
humorous in allusions or situations of this kind, as it appears to us.
Even some of the great French pieces, such as " Nos Intimes," seem
to be positively injured in an artistic sense by this introduction.
Sterne can always be pointed to as a special warning, for he has lost
two-thirds of his audience by going out of his way to tickle this vulgar
fancy.

To look at a score of Offenbach's music is like looking at a stage
by daylight. Nothing more meagre or poorer can be conceived than
some of those " galloping " choruses which were once the rage. It is
like a bottle of champagne ; once the cork has been taken out, no art
can bring back the sparkle and effervescence. This music will be a
mere caput mortuutn when the school that grew up and developed with
it has passed away and the fashion has gone out. The vivacity and
the roystering style necessary for its interpretation cannot be conjured
up at will, or be " got up " like ordinary stage " business." The
music belonged to an era — to the days of the Empire — when " high
jinks " reigned at Court, and when a notorious dance called the Can-
can symbolised a great deal The Offenbachian opera was but the
spirit of the Cancan refined. The serious music may have a longer
lease of popularity, but the relish of this class of entertainment is
founded in the tone of manners of the time, and when these actors
have passed away, and with them the inspiration, will be as hard to
recall to life as to revive an old and popular burlesque. Already the
" tunes" in " La Grande Duchesse " sound flat, and when Madame
Schneider shall have gone herself only Mrs. Howard Paul will be found
tolerable in the part. And it must be said the popularity of Madame
Schneider, in spite of the coarseness and something worse which dis-
tinguishes her performance, deserves the praise of being highly artistic
and dramatic. In its way her Duchesse, her country girl in the
" Barbe Bleue," and her vagabond singer in the " Pdrichole," have a
certain finish, a dramatic character, and give the highest entertainment.
It is when these characters fall into the hands of English players that
we see the contrast, and that they become ponderous and unmeaning.
" La Pdrichole," with Dupuis to assist, was a most charming and
entertaining performance. Even one single little street ballad, " Le
Conque'rant," was simply perfect in its dramatic propriety and spirit,
and the fashion in which it was interpreted by both. But in this

28 The Gentleman s Magazine.

piece again he was assisted by the genuine humour of the authors of
the story. All the Offenbachian stories are delightful and full of a
droll humour. What could be more funny than that of the Princess
of Trebizonde? A strolling party of tumblers and mountebanks,
who are seen in their booth, with their drum, spangles, &c, suddenly
come into a fortune, and their behaviour under the new conditions —
the head of the family not being able to resist the temptation of
spinning a plate on a stick at dinner — is in itself, as a mere picture
and without narrative a droll basis for a story. We know what the
regulation treatment of a burlesque on " Blue Beard " would be in
our country — a roaring, grotesque figure, with a false nose, ordering
his wives to be decapitated one after the other. It showed a
somewhat higher order of humour to exhibit him as a plaintive and
almost aesthetic creature, the victim of the tender passion, but in-
constant— getting rid of the successive ladies because they did not
answer his high ideal. So with " Boule de Neige," one of his latest
productions, where, in some impossible kingdom, the Oracle, or some
other power, has declared that a bear was to ascend the throne, and
certain adventurers contrive to make the bear the organ of all their
schemes. This would be the humorous way of looking at such a
subject ; but our native workmen, who present similar things on the
stage, g° to work after a fashion of their own which is utterly mean-
ingless. Lately a burlesque of Coleridge's " Christabel " was given
at a London theatre. All the reading world knows what the original
poem is — how mystical, romantic, graceful, but unintelligible ; above
all, how comparatively unpopular and little known it is to the vulgar.
There is no story, and it is more a dream than a narrative. Yet it is
chosen for a burlesque, the average audience of the place not know-
ing what is burlesqued. The result is something perfectly incoherent
and unintelligible. There are foresters in green, a baron and his
daughter, an inconsequential " Bracey the Bard," and a couple of
ladies — one in white, the other in gold. These figures are, as it were,
labelled and shuffled together, but what they do or what they mean in
their relations with one another no one can understand. Each, how-
ever, has a song and dance, buffoons to the best of his or her ability,
independent of one another or of the story ; and such is all that is
claimed by English burlesque. This has grown up into a system ; it
has its traditions and conventional style, and anything more coherent
would be rejected by the actors as not supplying " business."

The adoption by the English public of Offenbachian opera
bouffe has been remarkably slow ; but the truth is, it was never
presented under fair conditions until last year. The tunes arc

Offenbach in London. 29

«

familiar, and have been twisted and tangled into quadrilles and waltzes
— have been " ground " on the organs, and sung and whistled in the
streets : the plays themselves have been subjected to the hewing and
hacking process of adaptation — prepared for the English market
much as foreign wines are. We know the "Grand Duchess," " Blue
Beard," "Princess of Trebizonde, " and others : and it is the greatest
proof of their merit that in this maimed condition — after being
mangled and racked both in the adapter's cabinet and on the stage
by the actors — their power and meaning should have been so
thoroughly appreciated. The " Grand Duchess " was the first that was
introduced ; but it was brought on at Covent Garden as a pompous
spectacle, and was dealt with as a grand opera. It might have
been the Russian army in "L'Etoile du Nord" that was under
review, instead of the dwindled band that makes up the force of a
tiny Grand Duchy. The canvas was too large, and the actors had
no more notion than the clown and pantaloon of the pantomime
that was so handsomely mounted the following Christmas of dealing
with the grotesque satire of the piece. The Gaiety Theatre then fol-
lowed up this introduction, and steadily relied on Offenbach for its
chief dainties. But the humour of Mr. Toole and Mr. Stoyle is too
realistic to suit this class of entertainment The English "comique"
must have everything distinctly set down for him — everything must be
" business," and capable of interpretation by his stock-in-trade of arts
and devices. That sentence can be given with a favourite droll into-
nation or grimace — that situation can be illustrated by comic gestures.
But that impalpable, indescribable finesse — that underlying humour
which is akin to the sly seriousness which looked out of the eyes of
Talleyrand when he uttered his serious witticisms — that is an unknown
art Miss Constance Loseby and Miss Tremaine have no pretensions
to humour of any kind, and fill their parts with a gravity that is in
itself amusing, or with an enforced vivacity that might be called "lum-
bering." In such hands Offenbach at the Gaiety, though splendidly
mounted and even spiritedly carried through, became an entertainment
of a different kind, though highly amusing and popular: a mixture of
good singing, particularly good orchestra — who does not approve Herr
Meyer Lutz ? — splendid scenery, and spectacle. It thus fulfilled the aims
of the management As for those poverty-stricken attempts, " Falsa-
cappa " at the Globe, and the " Vie Parisienne " at the Holborn —
they do not deserve serious notice. But any one who wished to see
the nearest approach that has been made in English to the French
style of presenting this style of humour should have been at the
Gaiety Theatre during one of the Saturday afternoons when

30 The Gentleman s Magazine.

" Genevieve de Brabant " was transported bodily, singers, orchestra,
dresses, and decorations, from the Philharmonic Theatre, hard by
the New River at Islington. A brighter, more spirited, and more
entertaining performance has not been seen in London for many a
day. Much of this perfection is of course owing to the piece itself,
and to the music — both of which are supremely good, and fitted to
each other in the true spirit. But much, too, is owing to the fact
that the actors and directors of the "business" have worked
seriously — or rather earnestly — although they had to take a part in
a series of coherent events. To this understanding fairly adhered to
may be traced the stupendous success of the piece. The result is,
firstly, the audience is interested in the story, and is pleased at
following it ; secondly, it is not affronted by acts of " tomfoolery/'
akin to the sort of amusement we furnish a child by making
"rabbits on the wall," paper cocked hats, and the like; thirdly,
there is no undue exhibition of particular actors in the direction
of dresses and " make up " as absurd as what is seen in the street on
the First of May — no personal exhibition of prowess in dancing or
tumbling ; while fourthly, the humour and absurdity is of a natural
kind, arising out of the view people of a different age and country,
such as the audience belonged to, would take of the manners and
customs of another age.

The story alone of " Genevieve de Brabant," or " Jennyveeve " as
she was often called at the Philharmonic, is excellently treated. Its
outline is familiar — the heir to the throne wanted, the fascinating
cook, and the departure for the Crusades. There is a grandeur
and simplicity in these broader features — the seriousness in the
Crusaders, the pomp of their marching forth, the background of the
mediaeval town, and the genuineness of the love of the cook for his
mistress, illustrated by sweet and charming music — these add an
unexpected force and burlesque to the professedly comic portions.
It may be doubted, too, if there is any modern piece so full of
original and funny devices. The charming "Cup of Tea" song,
with its tinkling accompaniment of spoons on the cups (which,
by the way, is a deviation from the original), the arming of the
Duke and the " practicable " door in his helmet, the repair of the
armour, the droll gensd'armes and their remarkable song, which, as a
mere tune, is a masterpiece for its suitability in character and humour
to the persons and the situation, to say nothing of the burgomaster
and his speech — the whole is a most agreeable and enlivening
entertainment that sends every one away in good spirits and good
humour, and furnishes him for a week after with cheerful thoughts

Offenbach in London. 3 1

and cheerful tunes and a restless desire to send other persons to see
it, or to go oneself and bring others. Too much praise cannot be
given to the chief actors concerned for their admirable self-restraint
and for not " o'erstepping the modesty of Nature," or at least of
natural humour.

Allusion has been made to " La Vie Parisienne in London," which
is really a wholesome specimen of the rough carpentry known as
adaptation. The story turned on the mystification (or properly,
" humbugging ") of a foreigner who has arrived in the great capital,
and in the English version this is twisted into a pantomimic figure
with long coat-tails streaming behind him, while every one engaged
is dressed after some outrageous pattern. The piece is so full of
boisterous " fun" that with good acting it would have gone safely
through ; but the result has been the limiting of the fun. Mr.
Brough in the Baron did wonders, contributing the whole stock of
all his various arts and devices, which are abundant. Still a word of
remonstrance might be offered to this sterling and excellent actor,
whose Tony Lumpkin and sottish uncle in " Dearer than Life" will
not be soon forgotten. Such aids to diversion as rolling in the
dust of the stage, tumbling head over heels, belong to an inferior
walk altogether, and no one likes to see one of his dramatic favourites
encroaching on the department of pantomime.

On the whole it may be said that Offenbach has the proud distinc-
tion of contributing more than any man of his time to the diversion
of the world. It is to be lamented that, like so many other men of
power, he should now have begun to think that his genius lies in
another direction. Mr. Ruskin, after delighting the public with his
speculations on art, has now taken it into his head that he is a social re-
generator, and talks notoriously weak platitudes on political economy.
Liston fancied that after all tragedy was his line. Mr. Gladstone
has believed that he was meant to enlighten the world on Homer,
though perhaps now his delusion may not be so strong. Offenbach
seems to have begun to believe that romantic opera is his forte,
though any attempts he may have made have failed disastrously. Let
us hope that he will come back to where his strength is really to be
found. We will be bold enough even to suggest a subject of genuine
humour — namely, the first of Alexandre Dumas' pieces — " La Noce et
'Enterrement " — which long ago found its way to our stage as " The
Illustrious Stranger."

The Republican Impeachment

N the November issue of the Gentleman's Magazine my
pamphlet, " The Impeachment of the House of Brunswick,"
is the subject of a special criticism by Mr. John Baker
Hopkins. Some of the points raised in the article, in reply
to my pamphlet, seem to require answer and explanation at my
hands, and I therefore gladly avail myself of the permission so
generously accorded me to partially justify myself to the readers of
this magazine. I say " partially justify myself," because a complete
and thorough justification would involve greater indulgence of space
than I have any right to ask.

Mr. Hopkins contends that no law can be made without the
Sovereign, that Parliament cannot "prevent the succession of the
lawful heir to the throne ; " that Parliament has no power to subvert
the constitution, and that, according to the constitution, the throne
is hereditary. I submit that in this country there is no other consti-
tution than the law; that every Act of Parliament in its enactment
becomes part and parcel of the constitution. In America there is a
written constitution, and an Act of Congress may not only be uncon-
stitutional, but the judges may disregard it as unconstitutional. In
Great Britain there is no written constitution ; the constitution is the
will of the nation, as expressed from day to day through the repre-
sentatives in Parliament. However absurd any statute may be the
English judges are bound to enforce it. Each statute as it is passed
modifies the common and statute law in force prior to its enactment.
That the British Parliament can prevent the succession of the " lawful
heir to the throne " is certain. It has done so repeatedly. The last
instance was on the 28th January, 1688, when it declared the throne
vacant, thus excluding the then feigning monarch, James II., and
entirely ignoring his son, the Prince of Wales. If Parliament has and
had no right to exclude or prevent the succession of a " lawful heir,"
then the members of the present House of Brunswick are illegally on
the throne — in fact, usurpers. I contend that they are lawfully on the
throne, and may be as lawfully ejected from it. I deny that by law
or practice the throne of this country is hereditary, except so far as
created by Parliament. To quote the language of the Marquis of
Lansdowne, used in the House of Lords on the 26th December,

The Republican Impeachment. 33

» *

1788: — "One of the best constitutional writers we have had was
Mr. Justice Foster, who in his book on the ' Principles of the Con-
stitution/ denies the right even of hereditary succession, and says it
is no right whatsoever, but a mere political expedient. The crown,
Mr. Justice Foster said, was not a mere descendible property, like a
laystall, or a pigsty ; but was put in trust for millions, and for the
happiness of ages yet unborn, which Parliament has it always in its
power to mould, to shape, to alter, and to fashion just as it shall think
proper. And in speaking of Parliament, Mr. Justice Foster," his lord-
ship said, " repeatedly spoke of the two Houses of. Parliament only ; "
and Lord Loughborough following in the same debate was compelled
" to admit that a right to hereditary succession to the throne was not
an original vested right that belonged, in the first instance, to one
of a family, and was descendible to the heirs." It is true that Lord
Loughborough contended that the crown had been "made hereditary,"
but this could only be by the act of Parliament, and I submit that
the power to repeal is as complete as the authority to enact ; that
whatever Parliament can give, Parliament is competent to take away.
The Earl of Abingdon on the same day, in the House of Lords,
discussing the cases of disability provided for in the Act of Settlement,
said : " Will a king exclude himself? No ! no ! my lords, that
exclusion appertains to us and to the other House of Parliament
exclusively. It is to us it belongs— -it is our duty. It is the business
of the Lords and Commons of Great Britain, and of us alone, as the
trustees and representatives of the nation." And again, the same
lord declared that " The right to new model or alter the succession
vests in the Parliament of England, without the King, in the Lords and
Commons of Great Britain solely and exclusively." On" the 22nd
December, 1788, the Right Hon. William Pitt, then Prime Minister,
said that "It had been argued that, according to the Act 13 Charles II.
the two Houses of Parliament cannot proceed to legislate without a
king ; the conduct of the Revolution had contradicted that assertion ;
they had acted legislatively, and no king being present, they conse-
quently must have acted without a king." Mr. Hardinge, a lawyer of
the highest repute, afterwards Solicitor-General, said in the same
debate that " The virtue of our ancestors, and the genius of the
Government, accurately understood, a century ago, had prompted the
Lords and Commons of the realm to pass a law without a king ; and
a law which, as he had always read it, had put upon record this
principle: "that whenever the supreme executive hand shall have
lost its power to act, the people of the land, fully and freely repre-
sented, can alone repair the defect." In the same debate Mr. Pitt
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. u

34 The. Gentleman's Magazine.

reminded the House that " Mr. Somers and other great men declared
that no person had a right to the throne independent of the consent
of the two Houses." Mr. Macdonald, the then Attorney-General,
said in the House, on the same evening, that " The powers of the
Government must be derived from the community at large." The
Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV., in writing, conceded all that
I contend for, by admitting "That the powers and prerogatives of the
crown are vested there as a trust for the benefit of the people," and
by saying "that the plea of public utility ought to ,be strong,
manifest, and urgent, which calls for the extinction or suspension of
any of those essential rights in the supreme power or its repre-
sentative." I contend that there is strong, manifest, and urgent
ground for the extinction or suspension of the trusteeship at present
permitted in the House of Brunswick. The Honourable Temple
Luttrell, in a speech made in the House of Commons on the 7th
November, 1775, showed that "Of thirty-three Sovereigns since
William the Conqueror, thirteen only have ascended the throne
by divine hereditary right .... The will of the people,"
he said, "superseding any hereditary claim to succession, at
the commencement of the twelfth century placed Henry I. on
the throne," and this subject to conditions as to laws to be made
by Henry. King John was compelled "solemnly to register
an assurance of the ancient rights of the people in a formal manner ;
and this necessary work was accomplished by the Congress at Runny-
mede, in the year 11 15 . . . Sir, in the reign of Henry III. (about
the year 1223), thg barons, clergy, and freeholders, understanding
that the King, as Earl of Poictou, had landed some of his continental
troops in the western parts of England, with a design to strengthen
a most odious and arbitrary set of Ministers, they assembled in a
Convention or Congress, from whence they despatched deputies to
King Henry, declaring that if he did not immediately send back
those Poictouvians, and remove from his person and councils evil
advisers, they would place upon the throne a prince who should
better observe the laws of the land. Sir, the King not only harkened
to that Congress, but shortly after complied with every article of their
demand, and publicly notified his reformation. Now, sir, what are
we to call that assembly which dethroned Edward II. when the
Archbishop of Canterbury preached a sermon on the text, ' Hie voice
of the people is the voice of GodP ... A Prince of the House of Lan-
caster was invited over from banishment, and elected by the people
to the throne, on the fall of Richard II. I shall next proceed to
the general Convention and Congress, which in 146 1 enthroned the

The Republican Impeachment. 35

Earl of March by the name of Edward IV., the Primate of all
England collecting the suffrages of the people . . . In 1659 a Con-
vention or Congress restored legal monarchy in the person of
Charles II."

Many more authorities might be collected if your space permitted,
but at least I have done something to show that my opinions are not
so wildly absurd as Mr. Hopkins pretends. Mr. Hopkins alleges
that "many of the scandalous stories" contained in my impeach-
ment pamphlet "are false." I am unaware that any are false. I
believe the whole to be true, and have taken pains to be accurate.
As no instances of the alleged untruth are offered, it is only possible
to make this general reply. Mr. Hopkins is mistaken in supposing
that "kings and princes" of the House of Brunswick "cannot notice
the wicked stories about them." They have, over and over again,
denied and prosecuted, since 17 14, accusations varying from false-
hood to a crime so black that the pen hesitates to record it. They
have even prosecuted Leigh Hunt for describing a Brunswick as " a
fat Adonis of fifty." Scores of prosecutions for libel might be given,
besides affidavits sworn, and pledges of honour given by princes
of the blood, to ineffectually rebut charges of disgraceful conduct
against the Brunswick family. But, it is asked, ought the fact that
George IV. was " a very bad man," to be urged as a ground for
hindering the succession of Albert Edward ? Certainly not ; but the
fact that the Four Georges were all very bad kings, and that William
IV. was not a good one, ought not to be a ground for elevating
Albert Edward to the throne. Let him be elected or rejected on his
own merits and qualifications for the kingly office. It is Mr. Hopkins
who would visit the sins of the father on the children. He would
always inflict on us a family selected by our aristocratic Whig ances-
tors in haste, and repented at leisure. Mr. Hopkins makes a merit
for the Brunswicks as our monarchs, that "they never finally opposed
the will of the people . . . when the crisis came, the Sovereign gave
way." But what merit for the monarch to have resisted until a crisis
.resulted. How much misery might have been spared to Ireland if
George II. and George III. had not each resisted all mention of
Catholic Emancipation ! What evils might have been avoided if
George III., George IV., and William IV. had not resolutely deter-
mined never to concede political life to the masses I How much
sparing of agony, bloodshed, ruin, and waste of wealth if George III.
had not so madly resolved to insist on the taxation from here of the
American colonies ! What less of wrong and rapine, and, since,
of mutiny and murder in India, if the king had not determined
to prevent the passing of Fox's India Bill ! Surely a king might

d 2

36 The Gentleman 's Magazine.

sometimes be the leader of his people, not a continuous dead weight,
only giving way when the pressure was threatening to force away the
obstruction. Mr. Hopkins, who says that fifteen-sixteenths of
the national debt has been created to carry on wars which "were
sometimes necessary and always popular," asks how this is to be
made an item in the impeachment of the House of Brunswick. I
may here say that I do not advocate the repudiation of any national
obligation. I am of opinion that a nation ought to repay to third persons
any moneys it permits a Government to borrow on the national credit
But I should like to know which of the wars under the Four Georges
Mr. Hopkins considers to have been necessary; and I utterly
deny his " always popular." I allege with Hallam that treaties were
entered into in the reigns of the first and second Georges solely for
Hanoverian defence and profit, and which engaged England in dis-
advantageous and dishonouring wars. One early act of George I.
was to purchase for the sum of ,£250,000 Bremen and Verdun,
This £250,000 helped to swell our debt and taxes. But, says Mr.
Hopkins, it was voted by the House of Commons. He forgot to
consider that the vote was procured by the direct falsehood of George I.
and Lord Carteret; the money being voted nominally as subsidies and
arrears to land forces. This purchase involved us in what proved in
the end a costly quarrel, in which Denmark, Sweden, and Russia
were mixed up. Were the wars in which we plunged under George II.
just or necessary? and, if either of the wars can be justified,
is it not most clearly shown in the Pelham correspondence that they
were conducted in the Hanoverian and not at all in the English
interest ? And when Mr. Hopkins says that Parliament voted the
money for these wars, I remind him first, that George II. repeatedly
signed treaties pledging England to the payments of enormous sub-
sidies, and then sent such treaties to England, where a Parliament,
the property of the governing families, endorsed that which even a
free Parliament would have found it difficult to cancel without giving
battle to the monarchy. It is true that the Tories and the " Great
Commoner," while out of office, repeatedly protested against the
subsidies to German princes, and against the pro- Hanoverian treaties.
Can it be pretended that the war with the American colonies was
just or necessary, or even that it was popular, except with the clergy,
the landed aristocracy, and the Government ? The evidence is over-
whelming that this war was persisted in against even the advice of the
Cabinet Ministers, solely from the wilful wickedness of George III.
I say nothing here of the war with France, which forms one of
the features dealt with in my pamphlet. That after the wars were
entered upon or the enterprise decided, popular opinion was

The Republican Impeachment. 3 7

manipulated, I have little doubt, but should like to have the oppor-
tunity of examining the facts .which Mr. Hopkins would urge in
favour of the " always " popularity of our wars under the Bruns wicks.

To my contention that during the 158 years of Brunswick rule the
governing power of the country has been practically limited to a few
families, Mr. Hopkins answers by taking the present Ministry. Surely,
if his case were perfect as he states it, this would be no answer to me.
But in truth even here Mr. Hopkins conveniently omits half a dozen
peers actually in the Cabinet, and the host of titled official surroundings
exercising often irresistible influence in the nomination of members of
the Government for the time being, or in determining their measures
while in office. ' In a speech which he puts into the mouth of a
member of the House of Brunswick, Mr. Hopkins makes claim to
" Our hearty applause and gratitude " for the " increase in extent and
population " of the British Empire. Does he think of America, or
does he refer to India ? Does he mean that Australia and New Zea-
land are to be counted as Brunswick- won jewels? For the growth
of commerce and multiplication of riches, how is it shown that the
Brunswicks have aided either? For our freedom of speech and
writing, we only have won them now in England by constantly
repealing during the last forty years the restrictive legislation of the
preceding hundred years. To be told that there are no class privi-
leges or monopolies in England, with the evidence alone of Parlia-
mentary Committees to guide us as to the influence of the landed
aristocracy in elections, is to declare for a most indefensible proposition.

I have refrained from retorting any of the unpleasant adjectives
personal to myself scattered through Mr. Hopkins's paper, and as to
the*allegation of the scant number of those who think with me, I will
only suggest to that gentleman the need of visiting a score of English
towns on occasions when our friends gather before he again commits
himself too strongly. One word more and I lay down the pen. I
am not the chief of the English Republicans. I am only a plain,
poor-born man, with the odium of heresy resting on me and the
weight of an unequal struggle in life burdening me as I move on. I
have, I may boast, won the love and affection of many of the people;
that is the whole of my chieftainship. I can affirm that I never flat-
tered the masses I address. That I have ambition to rise in the
political strife around me, until I play some small part in the legis-
lative assembly of my country, is true. If I live, I will ; but I desire
to climb step by step, resting the ladder by whose rounds I ascend
firmly on Parliament-made laws, and avoiding those appeals to force
of arms which make victory bloody and disastrous.

Charles Bradlaugh.

From London to the Rocky

Mountains.

LOSE upon Christmas last year my friend and I, having
determined on making a tour of inspection to Colorado
and the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains, found
ourselves, at the close of a winter day, in the midst of a
bustle of people and portmanteaus at the Euston terminus of the
London and North Western Railway, in time for the down express.
Presently we were flying through Willesden and making rapid pro-
gress towards Liverpool, where we hoped to spend a quiet night pre-
paratory to trusting ourselves to " a ship at sea."

The express bore us gallantly, and at half-past eleven the follow-
ing morning we were swaying with the tide at Prince's landing stage,
and opposite us, about a mile away, lay the Abyssinia, sending forth
clouds of smoke, and looking, as she is, the perfection of a mighty
steamer. Soon we were on board her amidst a crowd of passengers,
and then the jvhistle sounded, the tugs cleared off, the people
waved good-byes till they were far away, and we steamed slowly
down the river with heavier hearts than we expected, for as the tall
masts of Liverpool faded gradually away, and the soft, dirty weather
beat on us ahead, the waves grew rougher and the great ship rose
gently to them, and then we were out in the open channel, bound for
New York, with anything but promising-looking weather. The glass
in the saloon was falling rapidly and the wind freshened every
moment, but no one seemed to notice it, and the Abyssinia bent her
great head steadily forwards, in spite of the whistling in her masts and
rigging, and one by one the saloon passengers found their way
" below." That night the wind rose into a gale, and detained us
considerably on our way to Queenstown, where we arrived, however,
in time to meet the mails, and after two hours of peace in that snug
harbour, we set forth again on our western journey, and at sunset we
were fairly out on the great Atlantic. The Abyssinia proved to be
a glorious sea-going boat ; gales seemed nothing to her, nor do they,
I suppose, to her competitors on the rough Atlantic, for be the
weather what it may they still sail out and in, never deigning to do
anything but close their portholes ; and though violent storms may
detain them a day or two on an unlucky passage, their power is so

From London to the Rocky Mountains. 39

great that usually they steam through everything, fearing nothing but
fogs and icebergs, and using no safeguards against even these but
the dismal fog whistle and a sharp " look out " ahead — a fact to
wonder at in these enlightened ages. I am told the French
steamers have set a worthy example in the use of a strong electric
light, which shows an iceberg at a great distance, and thus renders
it comparatively harmless. Our voyage proved anything but lively,
and we were glad enough, after twelve days at sea, when we steamed
past the American forts with the " almighty eagle " floating proudly
over them, and soon after dropped anchor fairly in New York. New
York ? Yes ! but a wide gulf still lay between us and that mighty
city — a gulf called " Customs," only to be crossed by golden bridges.
" These your boxes ? Guess you'd better unlock them." And then
the box is opened, and our well-packed treasures scattered far and
wide, till human nature can stand no more, and we display beneath
the cover a sovereign. Then a sepulchral whisper, " Drop it," and a
strong hand seizes on the coin. " Guess you had better place them
goods back; nothing dutiable here ;" and we, growing braver, unlock
a large portmanteau, and the great hands grope under and over our
treasured stores again till, stooping, we whisper, " There's another for
you when they are all through," and the sepulchral voice answers,
" You don't know who's a looking," but astonishing is the difference
in the mode of handling ; no more tossing and tumbling, no more
searching in secret-looking corners, nothing now but a confidential
whisper as the mark goes on the last portmanteau, " Put it in my
hand, sir, as you take the keys," and forthwith the passing is over,
and we are free to roam America. '

With great kindness an American friend whom we had met on
board had volunteered to put us in the way of " doing " New York,
and, according to his advice, we took our way in a hired carriage to
" The Hoffman House." We were not to bother about paying the
carriage, as the hotel clerks always manage such things in America,
but when, after a few days in that luxurious hotel, we came to pay
our bill, the item, " carriage and luggage express," struck us with
considerable astonishment ; for we had sixteen dollars (a sum equiva-
lent to three pounds sterling in English money) to pay for our four
mile drive and the conveyance of our luggage, which was not pleasing
to our British notions, but which I find is not at all an extraordinary
price even for Americans themselves to pay. It served us as an early
warning never again to hire a carriage without first making secure
arrangements, and to travel in future on board the five cent
tramways, which run to every place within the city, and never vary

40 The Gentleman's Magazine.

from one fixed price. We found New York a splendid city, though it
scarcely came up to our notions of a second Paris, in spite of the
lengthy Broadway and the grand Fifth Avenue ; but we experienced
great kindness at the hands of some of its inhabitants, and after
" doing " the gold room and a few of the city lions we set to work to
take our passage westwards, which we at last did at one of the many
ticket stores scattered widely over Broadway, easily to be distin-
guished by flaming advertisements outside their doorways, proving
their own line to be the nearest route to every imaginable district,
till at last, after inquiry at a good many, from the gradually decreasing
distance, one begins to hope that, unlike Mahomet's mountain, the
desired spot may at length come to our very feet. We finally decided
on the Erie line, the president of which lately met with such an
untimely fate, and, accordingly, at half-past eight at night we found
ourselves in a Pullman's sleeping car orj board the train. As it was
night when we started we missed the opportunity of seeing the
country we passed through, which has a great reputation for glorious
scenery. When morning came we found the line we took covered
with snow, and till we neared Chicago (a journey of two nights and
one day — 900 miles) the same character existed.

It was early in the morning when we reached Chicago, and our
drive from the railway depot took us through a scene of the most
disastrous ruin possible to imagine, a chaos of broken bricks, iron
girders, and burnt up safes, filling great pits which were once cellars,
with here and there the shell of a massive building gutted and
blackened, still standing, a relic of former grandeur. In every open
space, however, men were at work building, hammering, and clearing.
Stores had sprung up and were still springing up in every imaginable
quarter — not only wooden ones, but great massive piles of brick
and stone work, had already reared high above the ruins, and
some large buildings were even finished, in spite of the cold and frost
and snow; and whoever sees Chicago in five years' time, will probably
see a finer city than it ever was before. We were astonished to see
the wooden pavements being put down again, for there are stringent
rules against wooden buildings in the leading streets, and a thing
that struck me more than any other was, that during my stay in
Chicago, where every street had its hundreds of masons hard at work,
there was not a sign of scaffolding or anything outside the buildings
to tell of work going on within \ everything being done inside, and
all materials hoisted by pulleys, supported by gigantic beams in the
centre of the works. We stayed here one night to break the
monotony of our lengthy journey, though it occasioned us no fatigu<

From London to the Rocky Mountains. 4 1

thanks to the efforts of the mighty Pullman, who has indeed done his
utmost to benefit mankind. A more comfortable mode of travelling
than his cars afford cannot be imagined. He himself runs the sleeping
cars at his own risk, and works them at his own expense, upon the
different lines, the company granting him the right ; the extra charge
for a sleeping car being a dollar and a half per night, and for day
cars one dollar; the latter are called drawing-room cars, and are
fitted up with luxurious easy chairs, one for each person, on which
you can swing round at pleasure and look out of the large plate-glass
windows, which are about four feet by two, an immense improvement
on the smaller ones in England. I was told that one of Pullman's
Palace Cars costs in making about twenty-live thousand dollars
(nearly five thousand pounds) ; they are so strongly built that none
have ever been known to smash ; one individual went so far as to
say that no one had ever been killed in a Pullman car. By day the
sleeping cars resemble a long narrow room with about twenty velvet
seats on either side, leaving a good wide passage down the middle.
Over the seats the beds unfold at night, encroaching but little on the
passage room ; still the beds are wide enough to accommodate two
grown people, and they are infinitely more comfortable than any
ship's berth.

There is one great i drawback, and that is that no portion is set
apart for ladies, so that the limited amount of dressing and undress-
ing that goes on must be done sitting up in bed with the curtains
drawn ; a man can manage this, but for a lady it has many draw-
backs. Men appear through the curtains attired only in shirt and
trousers, their toilet being completed in the open space, but ladies,
who come out wholly dressed, have to tug and pull and shake when
fairly on the floor to get their garments straight.

The same objection will apply to the lavatories ; of course when
breakfast is looming in the distance, " perhaps but twenty minutes
ahead," there is a rush for places, ladies and gentlemen coming quite
indiscriminately; perhaps a man may be before you brushing frantically
at his hair, or perhaps a lady may be smoothing out her tresses with the
bright metallic comb chained on to the looking glass. Whoever it is,
no one can afford to wait except the husbands, whose devotion in the
States seems to be very great Even where so many brides are
travelling constantly, it is impossible to distinguish them from the
more sober matrons, and never have I seen so much " spooning " as
in the American trains.

Most of the companies have given up using the dining-cars (which
were simply ordinary sleeping cars with cooks and cooking places on

42' The Gentleman fs Magazine.

board), for they prefer to build eating houses at given stations, thus
placing the profits in their own hands instead of in the Pullman
company's. When the train draws near a meal, the conductor walks'
through and shouts the time he will wait for whatever meal it is,
generally twenty to twenty-five minutes ; and a gong beaten loudly

leads one to the smoking viands, the price of which varies according

i

to locality, from seventy-five cents to a dollar currency (about four
shillings in English money), and generally the sharp air and rapid
travelling help one to do justice to his money's worth.

The cars are kept very warm, too warm in fact, by pipes filled from
a boiler containing salt, glycerine, and water, which will not freeze
above zero; and, generally speaking, even in the coldest weather they
are uncomfortably hot, being thoroughly draught-tight and doubly
glassed in every window.

After leaving Chicago we travelled by the Burlington and Quincy
line as far as Quincy, then by the Hannibal and San Joe line to Kansas
City, from whence by the Kansas Pacific line to Denver. It would
require an endless memory to remember over what lines one travels,
and to keep them from clashing with the lines over which one might
have travelled. We found the Burlington and Quincy a very comfort-
able line, smooth and well managed, passing through glorious agricul-
tural country, not great in scenery (for one cannot see a mile ahead),
but undulating land with rich black soil, and the most comfortable,
prosperous looking farm houses I have ever seen, a fact speaking in
itself for the richness of the soil. At Quincy we crossed the Missis-
sippi by the beautiful bridge, a triumph of light iron architecture only
equalled by one other bridge in the States, its span being more than
a mile from bank to bank. We crossed it in brilliant moonlight, and
the river looked lovely, so broad and placid, unequalled by any-
thing I have ever seen, forming a striking contrast to the muddy
Missouri, a mere stream in comparison, which we saw next morning
at Kansas City. We crossed the Missouri by a lumbering wooden
bridge, which has the virtue of being the only one yet built on the
river, and then we were in Kansas City, a growing town, not in Kansas,
but in the State of Missouri.

Opposite it on the bank of the river lower down is a town formed
by John Brown himself, which the guard pointed out to us as one of
the Western sights. On this occasion, however, there was nothing to
be seen save a few low muddy-looking buildings, and unless John
Brown's soul has pleasantet quarters than had his body, one cannot
wonder at it "marching on."

Eighty miles from Kansas City comes Topeka, a much younger

From London to the Rocky Mountains. 43

and still more rapidly rising town. We had to wait here ten hours
for the Denver train, and whilst waiting we saw our first Indians. At
this place the rough frontier manners may be said fairly to commence.

Before we had walked a hundred yards from the station a drunken
man, with a revolver poking out between his coat tails, staggered
against us, and to our relief passed on; then three Englishmen recog-
nised us as what they termed " Johnny Bulls," and insisted on our
drinking for the sake of the " old country," immediately marching us
into a horrid pot-house, from whence we escaped after swallowing
three "drinks," much to our countrymen's disgust, who stayed to
make a night of it. This occurred about three in the afternoon, and
our train was npt due till one in the morning; however, the time
melted away at last, and at half-past one we heard the welcome bellow.
In America the trains do not whistle, but bellow like a young calf, and
ring a bell on approaching a station. These bells remind one of
chapels, and so different is their tone that the station-master knows
what engine is coming, and thus recognises the various trains.

Once fairly on board (this time it was the Kansas Pacific) we turned
into our berths and slept the sound sleep of weary travellers until
near Fort Ellis, where breakfast awaited us. At the table sat a tall
soldierly looking man who proved to be a captain of American cavalry
— a noted man in this part of the country, having the reputation of
being one of the few men who could make the niggers fight in the
war, and who is at present employed with about four hundred horse
in keeping the Apache's in order on the extreme borders of New
Mexico. His fort is the nearest civilised point to the old Aztec towns,
to which he gave me a very kind invitation, and a promise that if I
came down he wonld escort me to the said towns with a troop of
cavalry. I found out afterwards that he was wounded by the Indians
last year and his life despaired of by his men, but all my endeavours
to draw him out about his Indian experience proved futile.

Here we first struck the forts and prairies. The latter are immense,
inhabited solely by Coyotes, prairie dogs, buffalo, antelopes, Indians,
and soldiers, all in constant warfare one with another. For a hundred
miles the line is thickly strewed with skeletons of buffalo, shot either
by the soldiers for food or by the passengers in the trains for amuse-
ment Sometimes in the autumn a train has to stop and allow bands
of bufFalos to cross the line, none of them caring to do more than
canter out of the way, a single man on foot frightening them more
than the fastest train.

These prairies; approached by the Kansas line, must be the nearest
buffalo grounds to England, distant from London about fifteen days,

44 The Gentleman's Magazine.

at a cost, say, of ^40, and perhaps Englishmen have to account for a
great many of the whitening bones. However, the sooner the buffalos
are gone the sooner the Indians will be peaceful, and when they are,
the whole of this boundless area of country, capable of fattening a
million or so of buffalos yearly, will be made use of. The small forts
on the prairies by the side of the railways are worthy of description.
To begin with they are under ground, so that one sees nothing but a
roof raised slightly above the plain, covered with earth, and made
perfectly fire-proof; underneath this roof is about eighteen inches of
wall, loop-holed at intervals, through which the unfortunate soldiers
can peer before venturing on the plain, or shoot if necessary ; the
whole forming a simple though ample stronghold which a few soldiers
can hold against any number of Indians, who, having purchased their
experience, eschew these places religiously, knowing full well that a
bright " Spencer " may poke its nose through the muddy aperture at
a moment's notice.

At Pond Creek Station I noticed a man standing on the prairie
leaning against a gun, and on inquiring I found that this was not a
sportsman but a "figure" (as my informant put it) stuffed by the
soldiers "to scare Injuns," and I have no doubt it has answered
admirably.

At the edge of the buffalo country comes " Kit Carson," a small
town formed by freighters before the railway was made, and now
trying hard to hold its own, but the Arapahoes make life there
difficult, having only a few months ago (so I was told by a
resident doctor) pounced upon twenty weary travellers and killed
them within sight of the town buildings ! This town was the scene
of the sno wing-up excitement : the train crawled in one night during
an awful snowstorm, and it was found impossible to proceed. By
the morning the snow reached the carriage windows, and the train
was detained there fourteen days, while the passengers passed a
miserable Christmas, and were nearly famished by cold and hunger.
The eating house, well provided at first, grew short of provisions,
and even buffalo meat at last waxed scarce, so that the price of food
became marvellously high, and these poor travellers were left starving
and shivering in the intense cold, until at last some kind-hearted man,
with an eye, perhaps, to trade as well as charity, offered them the
use of a cargo of spokes and fellies which happened to be on board
the train, to be used as firewood in their dire necessity.

From Carson to Denver we journeyed by night, and arrived at
seven in the morning ; there we found the ground covered with
snow and the cold intense, but the air so clear and light that I

From London to the Rocky Mountains. 45

began to have faith in some of the Western tales. As an instance of
the extreme rarity of the atmosphere, I may mention that on our
way from the station to the hotel my companion suggested a walk
after breakfast to the Rocky Mountains, which lay apparently four
or five miles distant, and without doubt we should have started
had we not found on inquiry that they were twenty-five miles away !

Denver is a nice clean town, like all Western towns, young and
fast improving, containing already some handsome buildings and
about seven thousand inhabitants. Standing close, even now, to the
" American Hotel " is a kind of " shanty," at present used as a
blacksmith's shop, which, twelve years ago, was the first house in
Denver. Twelve years ago they had neither post-office nor coach
communication; now they have two trains daily in and out, and
stage communication to every necessary point Denver is moreover
rapidly losing its name as a " hard n town, unlike some of its
Western neighbours — thanks, perhaps, to its "Vigilance Committee ;"
at any rate, one can walk about there in perfect safety, and though
there are many rough gentry who winter there from the mountain
mines, where they are unable to remain on account of the extreme
cold, they mind their own business, and let honest folk alone.

In Denver there are gambling hells, saloons, billiard rooms, and
one theatre. We remained there three days, riding about the country,
and making inquiries relative to our journey southwards, and on
Sunday morning took coach for Pueblo, distant about a hundred
and twenty miles, having made every preparation to keep out the
intense cold then existing. For days the thermometer had been
many degrees below zero, and though the coach was crowded with
six full-sized much bewrapped men, each moustache was frozen.
The horses on the line are changed every ten miles, and their
appearance would do credit to the Windsor coach. They are driven
most carefully, never exceeding five miles an hour, decidedly slow
to passengers. One man drives about forty miles : he is then replaced.
Not so the guard, or rather " messenger, " who has charge of the
mails and receives all letters on the route, remaining with them to
the journey's end, travelling three days and four nights consecutively,
and sleeping only when the road permits, going on through frost and
snow, without even the privilege of an inside seat, save when the coach
is empty. The guard on our journey was making his second trip, and
suffering fearfully from exposure ; but a month later, when I met him
in Denver, he expressed himself as being quite used to it, and was
able to laugh at his former sufferings. After travelling a day and a
night, we arrived at our journey's end, our route having taken us

46 The Gentleman's Magazine.

i

«

through a capital sheep and cattle country, all of which is occupied.
In the night we passed Colorado City, a miserable littie town,
situated in close proximity to the " Garden of the Gods," a place
much renowned for its beauty and the virtues of its mineral waters,
which bubble up at almost boiling heat, and are supposed to possess
great medicinal power ; so great is their fame that speculators have
already stepped in and purchased every available inch of land, pre-
dicting for the place a great future as a resort for the Eastern multi-
tudes.

At Pueblo we found the sessions going on, and not even the
most remote chance of a bed for love or money, so we were fain to
be content to leave that festive city, and journey on some five-and-
twenty miles through a bitter snowstorm to a ranche on the Muddy
Creek (beneath the Green Horn Peak of the Rocky Mountains), the
property of a buxom widow. Here we stayed nearly three weeks,
in the vicinity of capital shooting.

Here, too, we spent our Christmas ; our quarters, though scarcely
fashionable, being sometimes very crowded. One evening we had
nineteen sleepers in the sitting room : fifteen on the floor, and the
remainder in beds by the wall side, in one of which my companion
and I were lucky enough to obtain quarters. Down here class
distinction ceases ; one man is as good as another — " perhaps better
than another," as Lord Dundreary says — and each one carries
weapons sufficient to give account of at least five of his brethren.
I once saw ten revolvers deposited on the sofa at dinner time, and
most of their owners were represented by at least one other protector
in the shape of a tiny " Derringer," no bigger than a man's thumb,
but as deadly at close quarters as the largest blunderbuss. They
say an Englishman, little knowing their power, was once threatened
by one of these Liliputian pistols : seeing the pistol pointed at him,
and a finger even then upon the trigger, he shouted " Look here, my
man, if you hit me with that thing, and I happen to find it out, I'll
smash every bone in your body."

In the mountains about here elk are very plentiful; one often
passes their cast-off antlers blanched upon the hills. Bears, also, are
numerous, besides black and white tailed deer, wolves, foxes, and
beavers, whose dams will save the settlers many a hard day's work.
The puma, too, is sometimes found, and whilst at Denver I saw
a magnificent specimen of the great mountain sheep brought in for
sale. Dog towns are everywhere to be seen, with the little sentinels
barking above the holes; here there are no game laws, and no
lack of shooting ground. Pueblo, the nearest town, is composed of

From London to the Rocky Mountains, 4 7

about two hundred houses, those in the main street being principally
saloons, billiard rooms, and stores, and two or three hotels, of which
the " Drovers " carries off the palm. South of Pueblo comes Trinidad,
and south of Trinidad, Santa Fe', seven hundred miles from Denver.
Here mail communication ceases, and the route into Texas is fraught
with Indian dangers on every side. Large parties, however, go down
every year, and bring back droves of cattle, though occasionally the
Indians make a bad raid, overpower the men, and stampede the
stock, thus rendering the journey full of peril In Texas there are
men who possess enormous droves of stock, some holding a hundred
thousand head ! In Denver I saw Mr. Hitson, who is one of the
largest owners. He is a fine looking man, evidently accustomed to
the hardest life, and as much at home on the prairie as in his own
stock yard. On his saddle he carries a magnificent " Winchester," the
latest American rifle, holding nineteen cartridges, and firing them at
will, a most perfect piece of mechanism, and I could not help
thinking that the Indians must have experienced a great difference
between this rapid " Winchester " and the old brown rifle he carried
out years ago.

Whilst in the south of Colorado I spent one evening with three
judges and some members of the Colorado bar, who were very good
fellows, convivial to a degree, regaling us with strong whisky and
many an amusing anecdote. They were then on their journey to
Trinidad, to hold court, their work having no doubt largely in-
creased since the vigilance committee ceased their labours. These
same vigilance committees are grand organisations, composed of a
large number of members working very quietly, but who, when once
sure of their man, take the law entirely into their own hands, and
having arrested him, dispose of him at once.

The bridge at Denver was the favourite scaffold, but there are
trees and telegraph poles which have assisted at many a well deserved
execution. As far as I could judge, the vigilance committees have
answered well, working usually with great justice, though there are
instances where the ruffian element has prevailed and honest men have
suffered ; but such exceptions are most rare, and the larger part of the
community have such faith in the committees that they are sorry to see
them dying* out At a small fort, on the Kansas Pacific line, a little
enclosure can be seen, about twenty feet square, containing the bodies
of twelve wretched men, who were executed by the committee during
the formation of the railway ! It would be interesting to read a his-
fory of these prairie railways. The body of men employed to make
them represented, I should think, the greatest lot of ruffians ever

48 The Gentleman's Magazine.

congregated together, whose number can be to some extent appreciated
by the fact that they built and completed sometimes five miles a day.
I must give one tale current in the States as a worthy but assuredly
overdrawn illustration of their doings. This tale is of Julesburg, a
small town on the Union Pacific line," which for some time was
the head quarters of the railway builders. Six weeks — six frosty
healthy weeks they stayed there, and then went on to another
station, leaving behind them fifty-three dead comrades; fifty-two
had died from pistol wounds, the last from a natural death — delirium
tremens.

The Indians of the mountains here are the Utes, generally
considered as the lowest of all the Indian tribes, but the inhabitants
of Colorado know them better, and although they do not hold them
in high esteem, except as peaceful neighbours, they look on them as
a warlike, manly tribe, infinitely better and stronger than their
neighbours on the plains — the Arapahoes, Cheytfnnes, and Sioux
— with all of whom they are at constant enmity, an enmity of great
service to the whites, for the Utes are so dreaded that they
form an invaluable protection to the parks and valleys, the hostile
Indians seldom venturing beyond the limits of their own prairies ;
when occasionally they have so ventured, there has been war, and
the Utes iavariably have been the conquerors. In Colorado the
Ute tribe is estimated at twenty-five thousand strong, and their
hunting grounds extend over a vast extent of country. A large
portion of the territory is set aside for their use by the States
Government, upon which no American is allowed to settle. This
plan has been adopted with all the different tribes, some of whom
are content to remain on their reserves, whilst others object strongly,
and are usually on the war-path. The Utes have been dissatisfied,
but Uray, their head chief, is a man of sound sense and clear
judgment, and he has hitherto succeeded in keeping them in capital
order. It is his boast that his tribe has always been peaceable to the
whites, and though there have been rumours of a breaking out, it has
never come, and every year the great influx of American emigration
renders the chance of its coming less, and the security of the white
man infinitely greater. I saw my first Utes in Denver; they arrived in
one of the coaches on a particularly cold day, and walked boldly up to
the stove in the hotel reception room, taking chairs and sitting them-
selves down without a word to anybody. Here they remained for
some time, whilst I was occupied in taking stock of their appearance.
They were short, powerfully built men, with reddish-brown faces,
peculiarly low foreheads, and hard, cruel-looking eyes—evidently great

From London to the Rocky Mountains. 49

swells in their own individual opinions. One was dressed in tanned
deerskin, with fringed seams, and stained devices, composed of many
coloured lines, up and down his buckskin trousers ; the other wore the
proud costume of an American soldier, and on his breast there rested
a medal about the size of an ordinary saucer, no doubt a pearl of
great value in the tribe.

Here they sat gazing fixedly at the stove fire, never deigning so
much as a glance at the people who kept walking in, till at last I
gave up watching them and went out, and on my return they had
departed. I must not leave Denver without a glance at the hotels,
of which there are several, but foremost amongst them comes " The
American House," capable I should think of accommodating a
hundred and fifty guests, and it is generally pretty well filled. It
stands on a hill (as does nearly the whole of Denver) and com-
mands a splendid view of the Rocky Mountains. The charge is four
dollars a day, which includes everything, mine host providing a most
excellent table, at which all the delicacies of the season are repre-
sented— buffalo hump, venison (deer and antelope), jack, rabbit,
mountain sheep, and bear's meat in its proper season.

At the prairie eating houses along the road I found the tables well
supplied ; the bills of fare are sometimes quite astounding, but on
partaking of the various dishes a sameness pervades them, and after
a few meals one comes to the sorrowful conclusion that the staple
article is buffalo. Nor is the fact to be wondered at, as the price of
buffalo meat is three cents a carcase (about a penny farthing) with
the hide thrown in, this being the cost of a Spencer- cartridge ;
whilst beef or mutton would be eight or ten cents a pound, with the
chance of it going bad oh the railway journey. There was a dinner
some time ago in London composed entirely of American articles
(brought over frozen in the steamers), and the buffalo meat was
spoken of in high terms of praise. In the Far West, however, one
meets it under different circumstances, which accounts, perhaps,
for a diversity of opinion : at any rate, after a few days the coarse
brown meat becomes anything but a luxury.

On the hotel book at "The American House" are a good many
English names, and now that Denver is on one of the principal
routes to India and China it will be quite a halting place on the
long through journey.

One morning at breakfast one of Her Majesty's Consuls on his

road to China was seated at a table close to ours, and in the snowed

up train we heard there was an English officer trying to catch the

Indian steamer to save his leave ; but whilst detained, he had the
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. s

5<d The Gentleman s Magazine,

satisfaction of knowing that the steamer which leaves San Francisco
only every second month was gone, and that he had nothing to do
but recross the Atlantic and take the Indian mail from England.
My companion still remains among the game in the Rocky Moun-
tains, whilst I returned by the Kansas Pacific line to Chicago, thence
taking the Michigan Central line to Niagara, there crossing by the
Suspension Bridge. On the road we had been detained by snow, and
missed the proper halting stations, so that we arrived hungry at
Niagara. Having crossed to the American side our train stopped,
leaving us with time and opportunity to work our wicked will on the
viands afforded at one of the hotels.

Here we stayed long enough to do ample justice to our dollar's
worth, and then proceeded towards our train again, which we found
had recrossed the river, and was then lying on the Canadian side. Of
course we thought we had nothing to do but walk over and explain
the matter to the bridge-keeper, as the bridge is the property of the
railway company. With this intent we walked boldly on, only to be
signally defeated, for the toll-taker knew nothing about any trains,
and he had only to collect twenty-five cents from every one who
crossed ; so we talked in vain, -till some one suggested that our
tickets would free us, to which the man assented, " If you hev tickets
you are right ;" but we were not right by any means, for our inexorable
enemy found that our tickets were for the reverse way; so he said
"It won't do, so you must jest pay," and we were paying and looking
anything but pleasant, when a smart-looking young American shouted
out '' Look here, stranger, I have you where the hair's short," and
immediately he produced a ticket for the opposite way, hitherto lying
crumpled and forgotten in his pocket-book, which ticket was scruti-
nised minutely, and after a close examination its owner was allowed
to cross.

Of Niagara I shall say nothing, but reiterate the words of this young
American — "There's falling water there !" So there is at Genessee
for the matter of that, which we passed at Rochester early the fol-
lowing morning, and after a journey down the lovely scenery of the
Hudson, our train arrived safely at New York.

A fortnight after I was in London, having travelled about four
thousand miles by train ; the whole journey (including a month in
the Rocky Mountains) having been accomplished in seventy-four
days. .

An Editorial Mystery.

" I'm a devil, I'm a devil." — Dickens's Raven,

j^ICODEMUS DAWSON was a devil. There was no
"" mistake about that. He was not so impish as Bamaby's

feathered friend ; he had none of the graces which

distinguished the —

Tall Figurant — all in black !

who astonished the Lord Keeper and Dame Alice Hatton ; he was
not a croaker like Poe's raven ; he did not bear the smallest resem-
blance to His Brimstonian Majesty who visited Hole-cum-Corner ;
he was altogether unlike Dante's devil in chief, or the theatrical repre-
sentation thereof; neither did the burlesque Pluto who has become
popular of late years resemble him ; yet was he a devil, and forsooth
with a tale. He was known as a devil from his youth up.

Ever on the hoof,

For " ass," or " pig," or author's proof. i

Do you take me ? Of course you do. You remember that picture
of Kenny Meadows's in which Nic, as a boy, is represented with two
antique inking bails under his arms, dinner plates and pewter pot in
both his hands, blotches of ink upon his neck and face. More than
that, you remember Douglas Jerrold's pen and ink portrait of the
same individual; and you exclaim at once "Of course, Nic Dawson
was a printer's devil." You are right, my friend ; " let us liquor ; we
live in a free country ! "

" In the days of darkness, in the hour of superstition, was our
subject christened. " Suggestive of many perils and dangers passed,
is this little fact ; and we keep our devil still as a memento of Dr.
Faustus and the old times. But it is not often you see such a devil
as Nic Dawson. The P. Ds, whom you may have seen are nearly as
objectionable as " those nasty dirty little boys " to whom Elizabeth
Lentington objected; but N. D. — our P. D. ! — all honour to the old
boy, is grey with years, and he hobbles like the actors who " do "
Mephistopheles in strict accordance with " the fall." He was the devil
at " our office " in the days of wooden presses and leather inking
balls ; it was he who used to meet the coach for the " express "
papers ; it was he who used to run to and fro between our office and

K 2

5 2 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Mr. Jobson, F.A.S., who succeeded in writing half a dozen paragraphs
during the week, and producing a newspaper nearly as large as a
sheet of foolscap.

He says he is the last of the devils as devils went in his early
days ; and so he is, and the first of devils too, as you will admit by-
and-by. But printers will always keep up the pleasant fiction of
"the familiar," and few who knew him will forget the many virtues of
Nicodemus Dawson.

It was a dark and boisterous night, at Christmas-tide a year ago ;
just —

At the hour when midnight ghosts assume
Some frightful shape, and sweep along the gloom,

there came a tapping at my chamber door.

While I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of some one gently rapping — rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door —

Only this and nothing more."

Not to be mysterious, it was a visitor, and something more — for
Nic the devil was not a visitor in the general acceptation of the
term. He entered so quietly, and with such an impressive limp, that
I involuntarily exclaimed, "What's the matter, Nic ?" It was not the
night before publication; he could not come for "copy;" he certainly
would not call in the middle of the night for his Christmas box ; if
the office had been on fire he would have shown some signs of strong
excitement. But Nic only sat down and looked at me, and his
manner was so alarming that I wondered for a moment if the poor
old fellow had really departed this life and had sent his ghost to make
me acquainted with the melancholy fact.

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer,

I stood upon my feet, and in a voice of thunder exclaimed, "Why
the devil don't you speak ?" Being frightened, I spoke loud and
angrily that I might take courage from the strength of my voice,
assuming something of that bravado which I could not feel.

" Don't put yourself out, sir," said Nic.

" I will not, my friend, but I shall put you out if you don't at
once throw aside that Pepper's-ghost manner of yours."

" Ah, sir," said Nic, looking at me very earnestly in the face, " do
you remember the story of Velasquez?"

" No," I said, recoiling under the old man's glance. " Who the

A n Editorial Mystery. 5 3

deuce was Velasquez ? What have I to do with Velasquez at this
time of night ?"

" You know what night it is," said Nic " It is Christmas Eve.''

" Even so," I replied.

Wretched as the attempt at humour undoubtedly was, it helped me
to keep my spirits up, for now I felt sure that this was Nic's ghost.

The wind moaned down the chimney, and brought with it a
thousand weird fancies, in which I saw " sheeted ghosts wandering
through the storm."

" I could not rest," said Nic.

"Alas, poor ghost," I would have replied, had I dared.

" I have felt so miserable these last few years — so very miserable
— and when I read that Christmas number of yours, in which you
allude so touchingly to your unknown contributor, I rushed out into
the night, and came here, because I could not help it."

"Oh !" I said, feeling a little reassured; "and now you are here,
Nic, what will you take ? "

" I'll take the kettle off the fire, if you will allow me, sir, first,"
said Nic, removing the singing vessel.

He did not turn into a ghost and swallow it, but went quietly to
my cupboard, and placed tumblers upon the table.

" Just a little whisky, sir," he said ; " thank you."

" That's right," I said, and I touched the old boy with my hand.
I found he was all there — that was a comfort ; but he was all here,
and that still puzzled me much.

" Surely you do know the story of Velasquez," he said again, after
mixing my grog and handing it to me with his usual deferential care.
" Then I must tell you that story," he said.

" But," J remonstrated, "you surely have not come here to tell me
a story, Nic V

" I have, sir, two stories. I am like the Ancient Mariner to-night
a*nd ipust unburthen myself."

"And am I to be the Wedding Guest, Nic?" I said, wondering a
little at Nic's simile.

" Yes, sir ; but if you knew the story of Velasquez and Pareja (and
I cannot help thinking you do), it would have considerably relieved
my mind and saved your time."

" Indeed," I said. " I hope you have not been drinking, Nic."

" No, sir," said Nic, looking me straight in the face again, and

r

beginning his story, which, old as it is, had on Nic's tongue a fresh
and living charm.

" Pareja," he said, " was a slave, literally kicked into the studio of

54 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Velasquez by a famous Spanish admiral, who gave the youth to the
famous painter. They called the slave Pareja after his master, and the
painter's pupils made a drudge of the woolly-headed curiosity. He was
in fact, sir, the devil of the studio, at the beck and call of everybody ; he
cleaned the palettes, ground the colours, cleaned out the studio, waited
on the young men, and was a slave in every respect, getting consider-
ably more kicks than anything else. Velasquez, his master, however,
treated him always with the greatest possible kindness, and the slave
held him in the intensest admiration. One day Pareja, in that imita-
tive spirit which is characteristic of man, whether he be bondsman
or freeman, tried to paint. Of course he made a terrible hash of the
business ; but the true passion was excited, and Pareja hied himseli
to a deserted garret in his master's house, and there set up an easel.
He had nothing but old disused brushes and the refuse of colours
from the painting room to work with. Early in the morning and at
odd times in the day he found a wonderful charm in daubing the
colours upon his bits of board in the garret. By-and-by the slave
improved, until the forms which he produced really gave him a posi-
tive delight, such as the real artist feels at his own success. You
know the story, sir?"

" Go on, Nic," I said, not willing to interrupt the narrative which
seemed to flow from his lips with a peculiar power that surprised me
far more than anything else in this singular and unexpected inter-
view, " Go on, Nic."

" One day Philip the Fourth and the great Rubens honoured Velas-
quez with a visit. In the train of the King were the highest grandees
of Spain. Following Rubens were Vandyck, Sneyders, and other
celebrated pupils of the King of Painters. Rubens, you remember,
sir, — I see you are well up in the incidents of that glorious day "

" Go on, Nic," I said, lost in astonishment at the old man's
animated manner, and uninterrupted flow of words.

" Rubens was most favourably impressed with the works of Velas-
quez. The latter said his cup of happiness would be full if Signor
Rubens would leave a stroke of.his pencil upon one of his pictures.
Presenting a palette to the great master, Velasquez pointed to his
chief works. 'All these/ said Rubens, with peculiar grace, 'are
finished, yet will I make an attempt.4 At the same moment he
picked up a piece of canvas which was lying, face to the wall, in an
out of the way corner. Turning it round, he uttered an exclamation
of surprise, as his eye fell upon the picture which afterwards became
famous as ' The Entombment.' Shall I go on, sir? — you know what
followed."

An Editorial Mystery. 5 5

" The picture was by Pareja," I said, entering into Nic's excite-
ment "Painting it in the garret, he had brought it down to retouch
in the morning, and in the hurry and bustle of the time had left it in'
the studio."

" I knew the story was familiar to you," said Nic, " you who know
so much. The slave had caught inspiration from his master, had
worked in secret, and Velasquez was not ashamed to embrace him.
What a glorious career that day opened up to him, and how humbly
he comported himself, how bravely he died at last for the husband of
his master's daughter, thanking God that he had been permitted to lay
down his life for the child of the great and magnanimous Velasquez."

There were tears in poor old Nic's eyes as he spoke of the slave's
death, and there was a rhetorical power in his simple manner of
telling the story that caused me to ask myself more than once, " Can
this be old Nic Dawson ?"

"T read that story, sir, in an old book which you gave me twenty
years ago," he continued. " I thought of Pareja day and night. 1
thought of the inborn power which any man has, however lowly he may
be, and /vowed to emulate the slave of Admiral Pareja. Now, sir,
do you understand me ?"

Nic hesitated, stammered, and fidgetted with his empty glass.

" Have some more whisky, Nic," I said; "the light is beginning.
to break in upon me."

" Do not, sir, for one moment think I place myself on an equality
with Saint Pareja — for I have canonised him, sir, and put him in my
calendar. I am but a poor ignorant fellow to be mentioned in
the same year as Pareja, but his love for Signor Velasquez is not
greater than mine is for you, sir."

" Then, my dear old Nic Dawson," I said, standing before him
and putting out my hand, " you are "

"Your Unknown Contributor," said Nic, bending his head and
kissing my hand.

"No, no, Nic; head erect," I said, "it is the special prerogative (i
genius to elevate the slave to the level of gods, to raise the printers
devil above his master. God bless you, old Nic Dawson !"

1 shall never forget the grateful expression which lit up the old
man's face as he took my hand in his, while great tears ran down
his cheeks.

" Give me time to recover my surprise, old boy, and we will talk
this matter over. Meanwhile, I drink to your fame, Nicodemus,
and wish you in the traditional good old fashion ' A Merry
Christmas and a Happy New Year ! ' "

56 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Nic put his glass to his lips, and pushed back the grey locks that
fell over his forehead. He looked like a man who had been relieved
from a weight of woe and trouble.

" I rejoice to find, Nic, that you are not a ghost, but a genius. I
feared you were the former when you came in here to-night. We must
republish these contributions of yours. They will make a pleasant
Christmas book. And here is a capital introduction ready made for
them — this interview. Aye, and a title too, Nic — a title that will
take the town,- depend upon it."

" I fear you are over-estimating my stories," said Nic.

" We had not published them ourselves, old friend, and made
inquiries concerning the unknown writer, had they not been worth
republication," I said with an air of editorial authority.

" I ask your pardon," said the old man.

"They shall be published as a Christmas book," I continued,
" and its title shall be ' The Devil's Own/ though devil no longer ;
for you shall devil it no longer here, my friend : we must place you
on equal terms with ourselves, Nic ; it shall not be said that those
Spanish fellows are better gentlemen than we of these colder
latitudes."

" Nor shall it be said that Pareja was more grateful and had more
humility than Nic Dawson, the printer's devil," said the old man.

" Then name this literary child of thine, Mr. Dawson."

" The Devil's Own," said Nic, promptly.

"So be it — here's success to 'The Devil's Own."'

" I wish to ask one favour," said the old gentleman.

" Name it — your wishes shall be commands to-night at least"

" It is, sir, that your own beautiful story of"

" No further compliments, Nic, an you love us," I said, interrupting
his little speech ; " to be likened unto Velasquez, to find in my slave
a genius contributing to my fa nous Christmas numbers year after
year in secret is enough for one night's romance."

" Pardon me, sir, the favour I still venture to ask is that you will
condescend to print your beautiful story of first after the 'Intro-
duction,' seeing that the contemplation of the secret and hidden woe
of the leading character, coupled with your tender inquiries after an
unknown writer whose story came next, excited me into this night's
confession."

"Go thy ways, dear old Nic Dawson — thou hast thy will ! Instruc-
tion to Printer whenever this famous Christmas book is published, let

my 'beautiful story of ' stand first after the Introduction."

J. H.

The Texican Rangers.

T Brazos, Santiago, June, 1870, I was recruited for the
Rangers. A placard in the window of a public-house
announced what was /wanted. I went in, and, having
been medically examined, was accepted. Government
advanced pay for necessary expenses. There were eighteen enlisted
with me. We bought three horses each — the best that could be had,
for we knew our lives would depend often on their running powers.
We were then sent up the country to our detachment. The Rangers
number in all about a thousand. Their head-quarters is St. Antone,
a place which I never saw. They are divided into detachments of
about a hundred men each, which are posted about two days'
journey from each other, though the distances were variable, for we
were always moving.

The sole and only duty of the Rangers is the protection of the
frontier settlements against the Comanche Indians, who are perpetu-
ally breaking in upon them, and seem to set no value whatever either
on their own lives or those of other people. One would expect,
where a race like the Indians are destined to extinction, and where
life and property are lost every day by their inroads, that they should
be destroyed as fast as possible, or that by some means they should
be absorbed into the dominant race. The infusion of Indian blood
would not, I think, do the civilised races any harm. The Texicans
themselves would extirpate them if they were allowed ; but the
United States Government will not permit it

Without any previous training we were obliged at once to take

part in active service, and active service with the Rangers scarcely

' knew any intermission. If not fighting or foraging we were minding

the horses. As each man had three, there were always a large

number feeding, which, of course, required a strong guard.

We were officered by Texican gentlemen, sons for the most part
of extensive owners of land and cattle-ranche masters. Then we had
inferior officers, corresponding I dare say to sergeants in our own
army, who dealt out ammunition and provisions and did other duty
of the same kind. One of these went out with us recruits when we
arrived to teach us the use of the sixteen-shooter. The sixteen-
shooter held that number of cartridges stowed away in the stock so

58 The Gentleman s Magazine.

that we could fire sixteen shots without reloading. According as
each was fired we pulled back the cock, which, working within, threw
out the used cartridge and brought up a fresh one. We were not
slow in learning to shoot. Men are quick enough in learning things
most certainly useful to themselves. I have been brought up in the
open air and have good sight, and though I never had a rifle in my
hand before, got on well enough. But from the very commencement
we had to go out with the rest. We could at all events club our
guns. When we had nothing else to do we used to practise shooting:
cut a circle of bark out of a tree and fire at that. We had a good
deal of deer-shooting, too, and some sport at wild cows. We
seldom or never had vegetables. Biscuits and the meat that we pro-
cured ourselves formed our usual fare. On an average we had a
row .with the Indians once a week. We generally got the best of
it. Their muzzle-loading rifles and bows and arrows were no match
for our sixteen-shooters. Even in a scrimmage with clubbed guns
we were generally too much for them. Sometimes when they were
superior in numbers we had to take to our heels. Our horses were
considerably better than theirs, so that we were safe enough if an
arrow or a bullet did not go through our backs. They shoot their
arrows with tremendous force. Once as we were galloping away
from them I saw an arrow flash right through a man riding a little
before me and stick in another beyond him. The first dropped
immediately ; the other put back his hand and wrenched the arrow
out. It was in his side, by the belt. The arrows have no barbs.
He galloped on about four miles before he dropped. The Coman-
ches take no prisoners, or if they do they burn them. Their rifles
and ammunition are supplied to them by white renegades. Any of
these fellows that we caught we always hanged or shot. There are
white renegades living with the Indians. Old hands used often to
say "Twas a renegade planned that game."

The Alapaches are Mexican Indians, separated from the Coman-
ches by the Rio Grande. These two tribes fight whenever they
meet. The Comanches are much finer men.

We had scouts out always lying about the country, but news of an
inroad was generally brought to us from the settlers themselves.
The extent of country is so great that it would require an immense
number of men to guard it properly. Intelligence of the movements
of the Indians was often brought by trappers and hunters. Of course
they hunted and trapped with their lives in their hands — the Indians
let no one escape. Beavers, deer, and prairie rats were the principal
game.

Tlie Texican Rangers. 59

On news reaching us of a raid we set out forthwith, and finding
the tracks of the Indians followed them as far as would be safe.
With our good horses, and being unencumbered with cattle, we
generally overtook them. If they had merely stolen we took their
prey from them and flogged them ; if they had committed murder —
blood for blood. Whites, too, were often caught cattle-stealing. The
settlers, if they caught them, lynched without ceremony. Except old
offenders, whom we hanged, we sent white cattle-stealers to the head-
quarters : what befell them there I don't know. The cattle-stealers
used to drive their booty out into the prairie so as to avoid the
settlers along the frontier ; they used to make a detour to the eastern
part of Texas and sell the cattle there.

Two years ago was a particularly hot time for the Rangers. The
Indians were much quieter before, but this year they were angry and
troublesome. We were on their tracks nearly every week. Sometimes
they did not fight, and seldom unless they were superior in numbers.
We generally charged them after shooting off all our cartridges. All the
men had revolvers and bowie knives, but they generally battered the
Indians with the stocks of their guns. The native Texicans all fought
well. In addition to being magnificent riders they all had a deep
ancestral hatred to the Indians. Each Texican had some friend or
relation who had suffered in some way at their hands, so fighting
was a thorough pleasure to them. We foreigners, who fought for pay,
were not so thorough-paced.

When the Indians met us in charge they flung their little toma-
hawks at us, and often emptied saddles, for they threw very straight.

I was thrown from my horse once in a milee, and was embraced on
the ground by a Comanche, also unhorsed. We were rolling on the
ground some time. He was stronger than I, and had a terrible
grip on my throat, but luckily a friend of mine, an Englishman, saw
the state of affairs and tapped him on the head ; I dare say I should
have been done for but for that.

The Comanches are small men, but very strong and wiry. They
have coarse black hair and are not at all ugly in countenance. They
look very well on horseback, but they don't look well on foot.
Riding, they can get down along the flank of the horse and take a
shot at you under the neck. Our fellows used to shoot at the neck
of the horse and sometimes hit the Indian on the other side.
Constant practice had made some of our men almost perfect. The
usual way in these cases was to shoot the horse, and then as he fell
to try and get a shot at the Comanche before he could recover him-
self and get behind the fallen horse. It was when the Indians were

60 The Gentleman s Magazine.

more numerous than us that this generally happened. We used to
dismount and get together in a cluster, firing over the backs of the
horses, while the Indians would gallop round and round us, shooting
from the wrong side of their animals. I shot a few horses while I
was with them, but never an Indian to my knowledge.

At one time all the detachments of the Rangers, by a combined
movement, advanced up the country, driving the Indians before
them. We drove them to the Rocky Mountains, and did not turn
till we saw Santa Fe', in New Mexico. We thought that having
been driven so far inland they would not take the trouble of coming
all the way down to the settlements again ; but I think they were
just as troublesome after this as before. There was a line some
distance in front of the settlements, and any Indian caught within
that was flogged.

A year before I joined the Rangers the chieftains of the Comanches
combined, overpowered them, and advanced into the settlements.
There was tough fighting before they were expelled, but they never •
combined after that. There was such a distance between the
detachments that any one of them could be easily overpowered
before any assistance could come from the rest

The Rangers were silent men ; very little talking or fun went on
amongst us, and real hard work it was for the most part. Sleeping in
one's clothes night after night takes cheerfulness out of a person fast
enough. There was no shaving, very little washing, no change of
clothes. The men were tanned and dried. We had few quarrels,
but these were generally fatal. An insulting look or word was replied
to by a bullet. You might as well shoot a man at once as speak
angrily to him. Our pay was forty dollars a month (about ten pounds).
Besides this the men had plunder divided amongst them from time
to time. Money up there was not of much avail, however. Some-
times we came down near the settlements. The settlers were
hospitable fellows ; we often had music and dancing at the ranches.
The frontier men are all cattle-farmers and horse-breeders. The
ranches are the large farms. Thd owner of these has native servants
or slaves, called peons. The farmers of the frontier are generally very
fine fellows. It requires a good deal of pluck to settle down there,
for the Indians are perpetually making inroads. Even the children
are armed there. Little children whom at home you would scarcely
trust with a penknife wear revolvers here, and can use them well, too.

The prairies are covered with what is called mosquito grass.
There are few trees, but plenty of scrub and bushes. The prairies
are well supplied with living things : great herds of wild cows, horses,

The Texican Rangers. 61

donkeys, and mules, keyutah (a kind of wolf), rattle-snakes, and
skunks, mocking-birds, wild turkeys, and owls. The owls are very
large and make a great noise.

The country has no hills, but plenty of elevations: It might be
said to run in waves. Mosquitoes only appear where the ground is
swampy or near rivers. We had no tents. At night we rolled our-
selves up in our blankets and slept by the fire. When we stayed a
few days in one place we used to cut down branches and make tents.
It is not by any means an unpleasant climate. In the morning a
breeze sets in from the south-east and cools the whole day, dying in
the evening when it is not required.

I was about a year with the Rangers; during that time we
lost over a third of our number. I left them near Fort Duncan.
We went there to lay in provisions and ammunition. I made a raft
of trees and pushed out alone on the Rio Grande, which flows through
that place. The Rio is a strong, rapid river, and I went down gaily.
I only floated by night, for fear of the Indians. Towards daybreak
I used to push ashore with a long pole and lie close in the reeds and
flags along the banks. I used to lie there all the day, and as soon
as it was dark push out. In addition to this precaution I piled up
branches around me on the raft, so that the whole looked like
a drift of timber collected by accident I suppose I travelled a
hundred miles each night. There are no rapids, but the river is
strong and fast. For food I had a little bag of biscuits and water in
great abundance.

Texas is a very promising State. The original inhabitants are a
mixture of Spaniards and Indians. The language is Spanish, with a
few Indian words. The Americans, however, are pouring in rapidly
and going ahead everywhere. They have money, skill, and pluck.

Arthur Clive.

Smokeless Explosives for
Sporting Guns.

BY CADWALLADER WADDY.

;<j UNPOWDER at the present epoch may be said to have
reached the acme of perfection, and yet many are dis-
satisfied with it as a sporting explosive. Those who are
accustomed to its use can urge but few facts in its
favour, the chief of which are — safety from spontaneous combustion
and regularity of explosive power. On the other hand, after every
combustion of gunpowder a residuum is found in firearms, which in
warm weather rapidly stiffens or beads, and lines the inside of the
parrel with a powder crust; in damp weather, as every sportsman
knows, this deposit becomes of a fluid and slimy consistency. This
is produced by incomplete decomposition, and consists of the material
parts thrown off on the decomposition of the gunpowder ; the ashes
of the charcoal, and sulphur in combination with charcoal, appear to
predominate in this deposit. The more impure the ingredients which
composed the gunpowder, and the greater the quantity consumed, the
greater will be the deposit With large charges proportionately less
deposit is left in cannon than with lesser ones. This is accounted for
by the greater force with which the former upon their discharge pro-
ject a great part of the residuum out of the piece than do the latter
from the proportionately longer barrels of sporting guns. In the former
of these cases, in guns of great diameter, it spreads itself over the
whole interior surface, and so forms a very thin layer, which readily
imbibes the atmospheric air. The acids which this deposit contains
act as decomposers of the metal of the interior of cannon, as well as of
gun barrels. During the long and continuous use of a gun barrel the
interior has been noticed to become restricted by this residuum to a
prejudicial degree. Indeed, in nine cases out of ten, where sports-
men have had their hands, and in some cases their heads, blown off
when in the act of loading, the fons ct origo of the mishap has been
found in this deposit or residuum of which we are speaking. For
instance, if a muzzle-loading sporting gun be not cleaned, with every
new charge a portion of the powder slime or crust is driven into
the breech or chamber of the gun, and a very dangerous increase
of this deposit is occasioned, which intercepts the fire, or may,

Smokeless Explosives for Sporting Guns. 63

upon loading, effect a spontaneous ignition. It not unfrequently
happens in the army and navy that from not carefully " sponging "
a great gun after firing, upon inserting the next charge it
spontaneously explodes, and blows the "sponger" and "loader"
from the muzzle. Many experiments have elicited that the
residuum of the powder in the gun barrel is phosphorescent — i.e.,
emits a light in the dark — like many other oxides, especially those
deposited by fire gas ; but this is not a dangerous appearance. The
cause of the powerful action of inflamed gunpowder is the extraor-
dinarily rapid expansion of the gases and vapours of the so-called
powder-damp, wrought by the high degree of heat to intense elas-
ticity, which, in its sudden effort to occupy a much greater space than
it occupied in its solid and material state, strives to overpower every
obstacle that would oppose its expansion. This may be exempli-
fied by igniting a single thoroughly dry grain of gunpowder in the
open air, when it will be found to evolve and spread around itself a
heated mass of air, which at the distance of four or five times the
diameter of the grain is still capable of inflaming another grain. The
spherical-shaped space which at this moment, in obedience to the
aerostatic law, the expanding powder takes possession of on all sides
around it, and within which it is capable of communicating inflam-
mation, is therefore from about five hundred to a thousand times
greater than was the material bulk of the grain. Experiments and
calculations have shown that the powder-damp, evolved by a closely-
confined quantity of powder, at the moment of inflammation and
completest possible combustion strives to occupy a space about five
thousand times greater than it occupied before, and from which it
expanded. This would denote a force or power equal to five
thousand times the pressure of the surrounding atmosphere. It is
a great pity, however, that this continuous and rapid combustion
should all end in smoke. But, as all sportsmen are aware to their
chagrin, such is the case, even with the best gunpowder ever made.
As a natural Consequence, after firing the first barrel it is difficult
to "get in" the second at. a "covey," as by the time the curtain
of smoke has lifted and enabled the sportsman to aim again at the
retreating birds they are generally at a range when his tiny projectiles
fall innocuous about their feathers. To invent a sporting explosive
which should be " smokeless," and at the same time shoot with the
regularity of gunpowder, has been the object of numerous practical
sportsmen and of chemists for the last fifty years. Until, however,
within the last four or five years no " practically" safe and efficient
sporting explosive resulted from the amount of attention bestowed

64 The Gentleman s Magazine.

on the subject. Amongst these inventions, that of gun cotton is
first worthy of note, inasmuch as it approached nearer to the
required desiderata for a sporting explosive — *>., smokelessness
— than any other invention having cellulose tissue as a basis. In
1832 M. Braconnot, a chemist of Nancy, in France, in treating
starch with concentrated azotic acid was led to the discovery of a
pulverulent and combustible product, to which he gave the name of
icyloidine. This discovery was passed over, nevertheless, with but
little notice, till in 1838 M. Pelouze, a chemist of some celebrity,
resuming the labours of M. Braconnot, discovered that the very
simple matters paper, cotton, linen, and a variety of tissues, as well
as other substances, possess the fulminating property attributed to
starch. It remained, however, for Professor Schonbein, of Basle, to
adapt this discovery to firearms in the form and substance known as
gun-cotton. This explosive is prepared by steeping cotton-wool for a
longer or shorter period in a mixture of nitric and sulphuric acids,
thoroughly washing and then drying at a gentle heat It consists,
chemically, of the essential elements of gunpowder — />., carbon,
nitrogen, and oxygen; but, in addition, it contains another highly
elastic gas — hydrogen. The carbon in the fibres of the wool
presents to the action of flame a most extended surface in a small
space, and the result is an explosion approaching as near as possible
to the instantaneous : in consequence of its rapid ignition the recoil
of the gun is most violent Sufficient time is not given to put
the charge in motion, hence it is not looked upon with favour
as a projectile agent amongst sportsmen. In addition to such a
serious defect as the foregoing, gun-cotton possesses an unhappy
knack of spontaneous combustion when in the act of drying
after being damped, either purposely to keep it safe in store
or from the result of exposure to the atmosphere. One would
imagine that the recent awful explosion at Stowmarket and
dreadful loss of life was sufficient warning to our Government to
desist from attempting to thrust it into the hands of the army and
navy for engineering purposes. We are informed, however, that,
much against the wish and expressed opinion of the most eminent
engineers of the day, such is their intention. The Prussian Govern-
ment, after many trials, rejected gun-cotton from their arsenals,
adopting, instead, the new explosive called " Lithofracteur," manu-
factured by Messrs. Krebs and Co., of Cologne. As Lithofracteur
cannot explode unless ignited by a detonating fuze, one would
imagine that our Government would follow the example of the
Prussians and adopt it for mining and engineering purposes. We

Smokeless Explosives for Sporting^ Guns. 6 5

*

are given to understand, however, that a " special Act " was hurried
through the Legislature to prohibit the use of nitro-glycerine in this
country ; and, as it happens, in a small measure, to be one of the
component parts of Lithofracteur, the country at large is prohibited
from traffic in the article. But to return to our "smokeless" sporting
explosives. Saw-dust treated in various ways has also been tried as a
substitute for gunpowder, and with varying success. Most decidedly
the best of this description of explosives is Schultze's Wood Powder,
which is made in the following way : — The grains, being collected in
a mass, are subjected to a treatment of chemical washing, whereby
calcareous and various other impurities are separated, leaving hardly
anything behind save pure woody matter, cellulose or lignine. The
next operation has for its end the conversion of these cellulose grains
* into a sort of incipient xyloidine, or gun-cotton material, by digestion
with a mixture of sulphuric and nitric acids. Our readers will
understand that, inasmuch as the wood used as a constituent of the
Schultze gunpowder is not charred, its original hydrogen is left, and
by-and-by, at the time of firing, will be necessarily utilised towards
the gaseous propulsive resultant. Next, washed with carbonate
of soda solution and dried, an important circumstance is now recog-
nisable. The grains, brought to the condition just described, are stored
away in bulk, not necessarily to be endowed with final explosive
energy until the time of package, transport, and consignment Only
one treatment has to be carried out, and it is very simple. The
ligneous grains have to be charged with a certain definite percent-
age of some nitrate, which is done by steeping them in the nitrate
solution and drying. Ordinarily a solution of nitrate of potash (com-
mon saltpetre) is employed; but in elaborating certain varieties of
white powder, nitrate of baryta is preferred.

By Clark's patent method, pyroxylinised wood grains, without being
subjected to frequent washings, are combined with other constituents,
with a view to neutralise the free acid. The chief fault in all these
descriptions of powder is want of regularity in explosive force.
Schultze's Powder as now made is much better in this respect
than it used to be, more care being bestowed on its manufacture.
Quite recently a discussion arose in the leading sporting journals
concerning smokeless explosives for sporting purposes ; from which
it appeared that Reeves's gun-felt has earned for itself a considerable
amount of popularity. It appears from the newspaper correspondence,
to which many well-known sportsmen contributed, that, as compared
with gunpowder, Reeves's gun-felt gives equal penetrative power and
regularity, allied to freedom from smoke and diminution of recoil, great
Vol. X. N.S. 1873. f

66 The Gentleman's Magazine.

cleanliness, and no corrosion of the barrels with the ordinary care
bestowed on all firearms, perfect safety in use and keeping, it being '
incapable of active explosion, unless confined as in the barrel of a gun.
The felt- in a loose form may be fired with as much safety as the toy
called "parlour lightning." Powder when once damp cannot be
restored to its former efficacy, whereas when the felt has absorbed a
great amount of moisture it can be easily and without danger re-dried
and restored to all its original qualities. After removal from the
fire it should be allowed to cool for one or two hours before use.
These remarks are applicable to the felt when actually damp — other-
wise it does not require the stimulus of being laid before the fire the
night previous to shooting, as some sportsmen have recommended
with regard to Schultze's powder — this precaution is not required, and
therefore it would not increase the efficiency of gun-felt.

As compared with gun-cotton it has the great advantage of
superior regularity, which is evidently obtained by the diversity of
the manufacturing process. Gun-cotton was toned down to a safety
point by the admixture of certain proportions of raw or unconverted
fibre, which, being of different specific gravity, renders a perfect
uniformity of mixture extremely difficult to attain. On the other
hand, gun-felt is chemically treated en masse by various compounds,
which, combined with the process of felting, endue it with the
desired properties. This principle seems to have been partially
adopted by Mr. Punshon in his patented gun-cotton powder, the
success of which remains yet to be proved by the sporting com-
munity. In the manufacture of gun-felt the presence of any free
adherent acid is rendered impossible by the various stages of the
process. It is the free acid which is the cause of corrosion in the
barrels, and also ignition of the material at a low temperature. Gun-
felt will not ignite under a temperature of from 380 to 400 degrees.
// has also no fulminating power. With regard to its keeping
properties it leaves little to be desired, as it has been proved fully as
effective after three or four years' keeping as when first filled into the
cartridge. With the exception of gunpowder, it is also less affected
by damp than any other of its competitors. As compared with the
Schultze powder, or wood-dust, the raw material of which is necessarily
from its varying densities of uncertain absorbent power, the gun-felt
has the great advantage of having for basis the very purest form of
cellulose. There is, however, a disadvantage connected with the
gun-felt in that it requires a special machine for loading. This is
remedied by buying the felt ready filled into the cases, with or
without shot, or by sending cases to be filled at the manufactory,

Smokeless Explosives for Sporting Guns. 67

thus doing away with all trouble, and ensuring the loading being done
in the best possible manner. Another point of great importance is
that no gun has been burst or damaged by it, which is more than can
be said of any other explosive. With respect to rifle-shooting it has
already been proved very effective, and thoroughly adapted for that
purpose, and we expect to find it soon in general use fof sporting
and other rifles.

Reeves's gun-felt having now been on its trial among sportsmen
for four seasons' shooting, and nothing disparaging to it having
arisen from its use, it may fairly be regarded as the only
sound smokeless explosive for sporting guns. We understand that
the inventor manufactures it under his own eye at Dark Mills,
Brimscombe, Gloucestershire, and that his constant attention is given
to the process, so as to ensure regularity of propellent force in every
cartridge sent out. This is as it should be. When companies under-
take the manufacture of explosives they too often seem only to
consider how a profit is to be made and a dividend ensured. As in
such a case individual prestige is not at stake, there is no healthy
stimulus to excellence derivable from the knowledge that one's
efforts to give satisfaction are regarded with a critical and approving
eye by the sporting public. Here, however, the case is different.
Mr. Reeves is a sportsman, as well as an inventor, and he addresses
himself directly to the sporting publie from his manufactory.

Who can tell what the next advance may be in science, as applied
to sport? Even grouse are killed by strategy, and after the most
approved mode are driven to the shooter.

r VXX*"S^N^ ■*•>•>*• X/'"V/' \/WW'

F 2

K

"Poo r T o p s y;

BY " PATHFINDER."

'T was the first day of my Christmas holidays — don't ask me
how many years ago — when, after hurrying through breakfast,
I repaired to the stable-yard to meet that all-important
personage " Billy," our gamekeeper, who was to attend my
hedge-popping expeditions for the next five weeks and three days —
bar Sundays. Fresh from deep, not to say surreptitious study of the
works of Fenimore Cooper, was I not about to perform in my
small way many a "doughty deed" of "derring-do" (whatever that
may be) in the happy hunting-grounds of the paternal acres ? Oh,
bliss of expectation ! Had I not many a time " last half," in
visionary anticipation, stalked the wily rook, even as the crafty
Huron approaches his dusky enemy the Comanche ? Had I
not with untiring patience dogged the "hops" of the enticing
blackbird, till, in desperation, it flew out screaming close to me,
but, of course, the wrong side of the hedge ? Ah ! and many
another sporting dream had I woven which I hoped to consummate
in that approaching Christmas holiday. My first brilliant "bag"
shall be accounted for in the following short story :—

" Well, Billy ! Here we are again ; have you got the gun in
good order ?"

"Aw! yes, zur; she's in caapital order; leastwise 'Joe' mostly
looks arter her."

Now " Joe" was the family coachman, to whose care was entrusted
my "single barrel" during my absence at school He kept the
same stowed away in a cupboard in the saddle-room containing his
" things," a most miscellaneous and odoriferous " lot ;" and, I have
reason to believe, won wagers at "snuffing candles" with it, from
strange "coachies" on dinner-party nights, when he entertained a
select circle in his " sanctum."

So we repair to the saddle-room, where I look over my favourite
weapon as keenly as any mother would her infant after a five months'
absence, no chance of scratch or rust-sppt escaping my scrutiny,
resulting in a proportionate cross-questioning of "Joe," who inevi-
tably proves the saddle-room cat to be the culprit

" Well, Billy, which way shall we go to-day ?"

Poor Topsy. 69

The two "beats" which I worked with alternate and relentless
severity were either "The Hill," where rabbits were plentiful but
generally underground, or " down below," where " fur" was scarcer ;
but by diligently "follerin' up" the hedgerows, on the Micawber
principle, something in the " feather" line worthy of my lead used
generally to "turn up." What dodgings after blackbirds did the1
orchards afford ! What breathless stalks after flocks of rooks, red-
wings, starlings, or throstle cocks ! — not to mention occasional un-
licensed "bangs" at wild covies or " pot-shots" at "pussy." I think
"down below" was my favourite resort; it certainly "had the call"
on this eventful day.

Mr. Billy having stowed away the " munch" in his capacious
pockets, and I the various ammunitions in mine, I shouldered the
"single" and marched out of the back-yard as full of expectation as
only a long-legged, keen, gun-bitten schoolboy can be on the first
day of his holidays.

Quoth Billy, as we were passing the kennel, "'Twouldn't be
much harm to take out ' Topsy* wi' us ; she's a caapital good un to
stan' a moorhen or a rabbut for the matter o' that, and a run Hill do
her good."

To which I replied, somewhat doubtfully at heart, that I supposed
my father would not mind — that it couldn't do her any harm ; so
perhaps we might as well take her with us.

My father happened to be away from home for a few days ; he
generally kept a brace or leash of pointers, and at the time I am
speaking of possessed a brace of own sisters, " Dolly" and " Topsy"
by name, who, for beauty and performance, were well known to
every sportsman in the neighbourhood. I need hardly say that
he was extremely proud of them, and was very particular about any
person hunting them in his absence. However, he was from home,
and perhaps — now I was six months older than last holidays — he
would not object to my taking them out ; anyhow there could be no
harm in taking one out; so the kennel door was unfastened, and
" Dolly" being repulsed, forth sprang " Topsy," as jet black and
shining a beauty as her original namesake.

And now we are off down the lane to the first rough grass-field,
where we propose to begin operations. We scramble over the hedge
and strike across it. " Hold up, Topsy !" And away she races, head
up and her stern lashing her flanks ; "Right about !" as she comes to
the hedge, and again she sweeps by us, evoking an admiring question
from Billy : " Daun't she just about get auver the ground ?" Mark !
there go some birds ! How wild the beggars are ! Let's see whether

70 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

she will wind them next time she crosses ! Ah ! did you see her
swing round? There she stands, a picture of elegance in ebony
that a sportsman would tramp five miles to look at ! Too late, old
girl; they're gone ! which fact she soon ascertains for herself; for
she draws on, potters for a moment where they rose, and is off again
at score to seek for a fresh quarry. Here we are in a large field,
through which circulates the brook that found me in piscatorial
amusement in those days for the whole summer holidays. (In these
degenerate days I can't stand an average of a trout and a half per
diem under a July sun.) Also in winter did it afford me sport with
the moorhens.

" Thur's the bitch a-stood again, zur, by the river ! That's a
moorhen, I'll warrant," says Billy. With cocked gun and palpi-
tating heart I advanced to the edge of the stream. That wretched
bird, instead of flying off in a respectable fashion when it was poked
out of a bush on the bank, must needs pop into the water and swim
and dive in various directions ; whereupon Billy (like most of his
tribe, utterly regardless of a dog's " form" when master isn't by) by
many halloo-ins and other canine encouragements induced poor
Topsy to change her vocation for that of a water spaniel. Between
them they eventually induced the bird to seek safety in flight, and it
came " scattering" up the stream towards me. I was standing a few
yards back from the edge of the brook, which ran between rather high
banks. I took aim at the bird as it flew along, just above the bank ;
when, just as I had pressed the trigger beyond recall (all sportsmen
know the sensation), to my horror poor Topsy clambered up out of
the brook between me and the bird.

Bang ! A red gash in her side, just behind the shoulder — a
howl, a splash, and I ran forward with a cry of horror. The disturbed
eddying water, with a large blood-stain in it, showed where she had
sunk, stone-dead, in some four feet of water. I never saw her again.

Pity me, kind reader ! I believe I burst into tears, and felt half
inclined to throw myself in after her. How could I ever face my
father ? Oh ! what a miserable day that was ; never shall I* forget it
We slunk away from the river. I did not dare to go home, for fear
of exciting surprise and questions as to my unusually early return.
Poor Billy was almost as "down" as I was. He foresaw the sack
for a certainty, for taking out the dog without his master's leave. So
we wandered about the fields in a purposeless way, exhausting the
time in mutual explanations and recriminations till the short January
day began to close in, when we edged away towards home. We
passed the kennel again. I felt like a murderer. There was " Dolly"

Poor Topsy. 71

perched on the coping-stone of the low kennel wall, wagging her tail
and expectant of the sister, who was never to sweep across the
"stubs" with her again. I sneaked into the house by a private
entrance, fearful of meeting -any of the servants, who were sure to
ask me what J had shot Who could I go to in my misery but
my mother? I found her in her bedroom dressing for dinner, #
and there I gulped out my story. Poor soul ! she was terribly
grieved about it : she said that she really believed my father cared
almost as much about those dogs as he did about his children ; and
that only a week ago he had refused twenty guineas — a fabulous sum
in those days — for the very dog I had destroyed. However, she did
her best to console me, as most mothers — bless their kind hearts ! —
always do when a fellow is in trouble. We agreed that we had better
break the sad news to my father before he returned home; there
would be just time for a letter to reach him before he started. So
my mother wrote to him then and there, making out, no doubt, as
strong a case as she could for her poor boy. How wretched I was
during the two following days ! I was ashamed to look anybody in
the face ; and what a state of " nerves" I was in as the hour of my
father's return drew nigh. I watched him drive into the stable yard,
and jump down from the dog-cart, as if in the best of spirits. I had
determined to go down and meet him in a certain semi-obscure
passage ; so, when I heard his voice (how cheery it sounded !) in the
servants' hall, I ran down the back stairs, and was about to blurt out
a little speech I had prepared to mitigate his wrath, when he took
the wind out of my sails by a great slap on my shoulder, a kiss on my
forehead, and a hearty, " Well, Bob, my boy, how are you ? How the
boy's grown ! Come along and let's have a look at you in the light."

A qualm shot through me. " He's never received mother's letter !
Oh, how terrible ! I shall have to tell him." I managed to shuffle
off somehow, and ran up and broke my fears to my mother. She
could give me but little consolation, but promised to ask him and let
me know before dinner. Oh ! what a relief did that little nod and
half smile of hers afford me when I slipped into the drawing-room,
just before dinner was announced.

" Yes, my dear, I got your letter ! Please never to mention the
poor dog's name to me again— or to Bob either." That was my
father's answer to my mother's question.

For many years the subject of pointers was carefully avoided in
our family circle ; and, though at last my father broke the ice himself
when " yarning" to me about his old favourites, and forgave me over
again in , his look, yet to this day we all drop our voices to a
respectful whisper when we make mention of " Poor Topsy."

. Life in London.

III.— A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS.

T is true, ev£ry word of it. I set it down for Christmas
because the peculiar grace of the season seems appropriate
to the incident. It is a story of modern heroism. Poets are
apt to look upon the age of chivalry as a past and almost
forgotten time. With their imaginary history of great deeds they mix
Scandinavian myths and Teutonic folk-lore. For nobler themes I
commend them to the modern history of coal-getting, to the newspaper
records of the late gales on our unprotected coasts, to the biographies
of inventors and travellers, to the everyday life of London, to the
" simple annals of the poor." Though he is " born in sin and s^hapen
in iniquity," there is more in man of the angel than the devil. His
instincts are good, his impulses noble ; given the choice of vice or
virtue in the abstract, my belief is that he would invariably be found
on the side of virtue. Some of the noblest acts of heroism occur
among the lowest stratum of society. The poor is the poor man's
friend. Missionaries in the wilds of East London could give you
some startling illustrations of the truth of the proverb.

But this exordium on modern heroism is neither here nor there.
It is always difficult to commence a story. When you have started an
introduction and are fairly launched into theorising and moralising, it
is far more difficult to stop than to go on. If you are courageous you
will suddenly pull up the moment this thought crosses your mind,
and go straight into your subject. Thus : —

I called upon a journalist and dramatic writer the other day in
St. John's Wood, on my way to town.

" If you will wait ten minutes," he said, " I will drive you as far
as Bond Street; I am going to take the baby to B *s, the oculist"

"Why?" I asked, "is anything the matter?"

" No, nothing very particular."
. At this juncture the baby came romping into the room. She was
a pretty, dark-eyed child, and had a long story to tell about Guy
Fawkes at the Zoo.

" Yes," said her father. " Now you will go to Bertha and have
your things put on for a drive."

Life in London. 73

The little one scampered away, and my friend proceeded to answer
my question.

" You have noticed," he said, " that I have a sort of cast in my
eye — some people call it a squint."

" Your eyes are peculiar," I said ; " but you see well."

"Yes, I have very good sight. That is not the point Baby's <
eyes (or one of them, at all events) show symptoms of the defect
you notice in mine. Her mother, as you know, is abroad, and I am
sending the child's portrait to her as a Christmas present. The
photographs give evidence of the peculiarity you notice in my eyes ;
the child will squint, I fear, if something cannot be done to check the
disposition of the eye in that direction."

"I notice a defect, now you draw my attention to the child's
expression ; but it is very slight"

" It will grow ; it may be hereditary ; I am going to submit her to
examination ; a squint in a man is a matter of no moment ; but in a
woman the drawback is serious."

We drove to the oculist's, my friend, grandmama, and baby.
On our way we looked in at a morning rehearsal of a piece in which
my friend was interested. The transition from the London streets to
the dirty daylight of the theatre and back again to the prim, proper
door of the fashionable oculist left a curious impression on my
mind. My friend and his child entered the house. I preferred to
wait outside and keep grandmama company. We sat there for an
hour, watching the people go to and fro in the wet All sorts of
men and women went in and out of the oculist's house, in all kinds
of spectacles ; we speculated freely upon their condition ; we felt a
deep interest in a graceful young lady who was led by her father ;
there was one face which almost appalled us — it was blue, like the
lover's in " Poor Miss Finch." On the other side of the way was a
Court millinery establishment ; a wedding party came there to try on
bonnets ; for a time they entertained us mightily, but our mirth was
destroyed by a funeral which crept past us in the rain and sleet, for we
knew how some one else would presently meet the same procession
trotting home, the mutes a little the worse for drink, the coachmen
ciacking their whips gaily.

By-and-by the oculist's door opened, and father and child came out.

"Take her home, grandma," said my friend, tenderly lifting the
little one into the brougham.

" What does he say ? " asked grandma anxiously.

"No harm at present — she is all right"

Grandma and baby went joyfully home ; Pater and myself strolled
down Regent Street under a reeking umbrella.

74 The Gentlemafis Magazine.

" What did B say ?" I asked.

"That the disorder is hereditary; by examining my eye he could
tell exactly what would be required in baby's case."

" And what is required ? "

" An operation."

"A serious one?"

" It will be necessary to cut one of the muscles of the eye."

" You did not say so to grandma."

" No ; she is very nervous ; it is not worth while frightening her,
and she has an idea that the eye must be taken out and put in
again, or some such nonsense of that kind."

" You seem a little downhearted, nevertheless," I said.

"Do I?"

" Yes. Now tell me all about it ; you are concealing something
from me."

" I will tell you what passed, certainly. I said to B if he could

tell what was the matter with baby by examining my eyes, he might
try his operation on me first, and if I liked it and it was quite satis-
factory, then baby could be treated afterwards."

" If you liked it!" I said.

" It will not matter if he spoils me, but it would break my wife's
heart if he were unsuccessful with baby. It would also be a lasting
sorrow to me, and, moreover, I don't know what your English oculists
can do ; if I were in New York, look you, I should know better what
I was about"

"That is the way with you Americans," I said. "You think nothing
great can be done outside New York — you are mistaken."

" I don't know," said my friend, laconically. " B says both my

eyes are wrong."

"You are an odd fellow."

"With odd eyes."

" What did the oculist think of your suggestion ?"

" Seemed a little surprised, but it is just like my luck ; if I were to
go with a fellow to have his arm amputated, the operator would swear
something was the matter with my leg and have it off. I am to go
to B 's on Monday at one."

"What for?"

" The operation on my eyes."

This conversation was on Friday. On Saturday and Sunday I
thought a great deal of my friend. On Monday I called and asked
him to let me accompany him.

" No," he said firmly. " I will not hear of it ; don't think you

Life in London. 75

could stand it. B said he should give me chloroform; no, H

will call for me."

It did not occur to me even then that the operation was anything
more than an ordinary one, though delicate and perhaps painful ; but
on Sunday night a sort of instinct prompted me to send a note to Ivy
Lodge to say that I should call at twelve. My messenger returned.
He could not open the lodge gates. On Monday a rush of business
letters carried me early into the City, and only on Tuesday did I learn
what had taken place. My friend had undergone the most supreme of
all the wonderful operations on the eye. The oculist had taken out
both his eyes and replaced them, after cutting the particular muscle or

sinew which had not worked perfectly. My friend H was present

during the operation. Going home afterwards, he had to lead the
American journalist up the garden path. Grandma saw them coming.

"Ah, poor Stephen !" she said. "I thought he was not well this
morning ; he ate no breakfast, and he has been taking spirits some-
where ; spirits never agree with him."

My friend staggered into the house under the stigma of spirits,
kissed the baby, covered up his -eyes, went to bed, and lay broad
awake nearly all night, fighting off the lingering influences of chloro-
form.

During the last few weeks he has been going about London with

bloodshot eyes, but tolerably well, thank goodness. Brother clubmen

ask him how he is ; they hear he has been ill. He tells them he has

been poorly — " Cold in his head ; eyes been a little out of order ; all

' right now, thank you ! "

If this is not an incident of self-denial and true nobility of nature
worthy -of narration at the Christmas hearth, I know notRing of
human life.

. -v^ -+,s >*s -

Tennyson's Last Idyll.

A STUDY.
BY THE REV. DR. LEARY, D.CX.

>HE verdict formed by the critics on the first appearance
of Mr. Tennyson's " Gareth and Lynette n was not in the
mass favourable to this last of the Arthurian Idylls.
Some blamed it, because it was Tennysonian ) others,
tired of Idylls, because it was another Idyll ; and others, not tired of
the Idylls, because it was unequal in their eyes to those other songs
which have already sung, in lays that will outlast all modern poetry : —

The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof the world holds record.

The most prejudiced, however, of Tennyson's critics will scarcely
venture to deny him the gift of that most accurate measurement of
his own powers which has enabled him to prove precisely what he
could, and what he could not, achieve in that art wherein he has
displayed a perfection of matured skill and of exquisite taste in the
elaboration of language and legend, given to none of his contempo-
raries, and to few of his predecessors.

In the Idylls, and in the Idylls alone, Tennyson found precisely the
sphere* most congenial to his taste, the most suited to the mould of
his plastic genius, and from the first publication of the Idylls the
Laureate may date the registering of his name in the highest class of
our poets. Is it, then, to be wondered at that a poet should go on
adding to a legendary epic which was received with passionate accla-
mations by the nation it enchanted, and that lifted him at once to
the highest pinnacle of the temple of fame? But, on artistic grounds
alone, the extension of the Arthurian epic which came before us
in the earliest Idyll is amply justified by the scenes and characters
superadded at each successive stage of its graduated development
An epic lacking a full and varied presentation of the greatest phe-
nomena of our human nature on a grand scale, with its diversities of
temper, lineaments, functions, and fancies, lacks that element which
alone can round it to perfection.

The superadded characters and situations given us in the "Holy
Grail," the " Last Tournament," and " Gareth and Lynette," though

Tenny sorts Last Idyll. 7 7

copies of nothing already given by the poet, notwithstanding their
own distinctive independency and originality, have yet in them a
certain analogical relationship to the former portion of the epic, so
that we accept them at once as members of the same family, marked
by a family likeness, and welcome them all the more as playing parts
and exhibiting phases of character requisite to make the Arthurian
epic a true mirror of Arthurian chivalry in the brightest as in the
darkest of its phases. A Sir Percivale, a Sir Galahad, a Dagenot,
and a Gareth and Lynette were as absolutely necessary as an Elaine,
a Vivien, and a Geraint, to picture forth the story of the Table
Round, and the days of the blameless King, not merely in fidelity to
the artistic requirements of the past, but in fidelity to the general
consensus of the legends which echo the voices of that far off past.

Scarcely by any poet has Tennyson been surpassed in the extremely
difficult combination of purity and intensity of affection in his heroes
and heroines, and by few poets in the equally difficult combination of
force with delicacy in the delineation of character. In "Gareth and
Lynette," the crown and climax of the Arthurian Idylls, the Laureate
opens up a new vein of characterisation, and works it out with more
than his old power and skill. To preserve the central unity of this
grand Arthurian epic, two of the old characters — King Arthur and
Lancelot, "the peerless knight" — are again brought before our charmed
presence, but they come clearer and nearer to us than ever they did
before, more distinct in outline, more palpable in form, more coloured
with the living colours of life, more human in their action, and less
shadowy phantoms of a shadowy past Arthur at Almesbury, "moving
ghost-like to his doom," with the morning vapours rolling round him,
is scarcely so clear and palpable to the eye of our apprehension as
Arthur now at Camelot " delivering doom " and redressing wrong,
sitting like a Solomon in all his glory in the long vaulted judgment
hall, before the listening eyes (evidently Virgil's " tacitus luminibus ")
of those tall knights that ranged about his throne.

Although, according to the fine distincfion drawn by the poet —

That Lancelot was the first in tournament
And Arthur mightiest in the battle-field,

yet, of the King as a warrior, we see nothing in the present Idyll,
and it is but very little we see of Lancelot's —

Skilled spear, the wonder of the world.

Here, more than hitherto, Lancelot foregoes his own advantage
and his own fame, more peerless than hitherto in supporting the
weakness of the weak, and encouraging the growth of all that is pure

78 The Gentleman's Magazine.

and noble-natured in others ; and this, for the first time, without
inconsistency, for as yet his sin with Guinevere has not been sinned,
and his loyalty to his King has not yet been tarnished by his disloyal
love to his Queen.

In the Gareth and Lynette, the poet's two latest creations of
character, we have two essentially new types of humanity. Gareth,
the boy knight, is a Geraint without the base suspicions of the
jealous Geraint, a sinless Arthur without Arthur's cold and passive
sinlessness, a Lancelot without the years and skill and fame of
Lancelot, and happily without that " faith unfaithful " which " kept
him falsely true," but not without the perfection of gentleness that
swayed the every mood and manner of that " peerless knight" A
lovelier type of young chivalry — of the tenderest grace in the man-
liest of manhood, strength of hand and heart — the plastic mould of
Tennyson's imagination never bodied forth than that of Gareth, all
defiance as he is to dangers the most terrible, all fondness and all
forbearance as he proves himself ever to the damsel whose battles he
fought, whose eyes darted nothing but scorn, whose tongue wagged
only to wound him. Wherever we see Gareth we can see him only
as a vision of what is lovely and endearing in human character. At
home, hovering around his mother's chair, with the sharp spur of
fame pricking him to deeds of fame afar, he is still the tender, loving,
"best loved" son of his loved and loving mother. Gareth, as
" kitchen knave " in the King's kitchen, doing the lowliest of service
with an easy grace, pure of speech, bearing the burden of the weak,
gentle and kindly to the lowest, wins every heart and draws on
him the admiring eyes of Lancelot and the King. Gareth, sent on
the quest, scorned and cudgelled by a woman's sharp and bitter
tongue, only returns good deeds for evil words, and holds —

He scarce is knight, yea, but half man, nor meet
To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets
His heart be stirred with any girlish heat,
At any gentle damsel's waywardness.

Lynette's pride, petulance, and peevishness stand out in singular
contrast to the sweet and tender patience of Elaine and Enid, the
ministering angels of Geraint and Lancelot; but much must be said in
palliation of a haughty damsel with a well-developed organ of petu-
lance, who comes to Arthur's Court to ask for a Lancelot, and gets,
as if in scorn, " a kitchen knave," as she deems, for her knight Her
heart is none the less truly a true woman's heart How tenderly it is
touched at last by the unfailing gentleness of the gentle knight, whose

Tennyson s Last Idyll. 79

" abounding pleasure" it was to fight so hard and suffer so much as
her champion ! How frankly does she own at last the complete con-
quest of gallantry and gentleness as she pours out those tender words
of mingled confession and contrition, of simplest but most intense

passion : —

Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause to sleep hast thou !

Wake lusty ! Seem I not as tender to him
As any mother ? Ay, but such a one
As all day long hath rated at her child
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep.

It is not often that poets spend their music in descriptions of the
nasal appendages of their heroes or heroines, as Tennyson has done,
not without reason, in the case of Lynette : —

And lightly was her slender nose
Tip-tilted y like (he petal of a flower.

It is a mistake, however, to assert, as some of the poet's most

recent critics have asserted, that our best poets never condescend

to such descriptions ; for in Chaucer's portraiture of the Prioress we

read : —

Hire nose streightj hire eyen grey as glass.

Then in Wordsworth we have the mild periphrases —

Black hair and vivid eye, and meagre cheek :
His prominent feature like an eagle's beak.

The description of the nose in the portrait of Lynette is, we
conceive, an attempt to express, by an outward and visible sign, the
inward spirit of petulance and peevishness which plays so large a
part in the development of her character. In this assumed harmony
between psychology and physiognomy, Tennyson, we believe, is at
perfect harmony with himself and with the findings of science and
experience. The bard that sees, with the eye of science, in the round

face : —

A cipher face of rounded foolishness,

and sees a " noble-natured " breed in : —

Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine,
High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands
Large, fair, and fine —

so close an observer and painter of nature is not likely to forget so
characteristic a symbol of petulance as "le nez retrousse" in a heroine
so marked for petulance — who

Nipt her slender nose

With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling " Hence ! "

80 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

The painters and sculptors of classical antiquity long ago antici-
pated Tennyson in making the expression of temper and indignation
lie chiefly in the conformation of the nose, and the most represen-
tative writers of the modern French school of physiognomy have
regarded " le nez retrousse' " in woman as an index of wit, piquancy,
animation, as well as of petulance, though we think Marmontel goes
a trifle too far with his celebrated dictum " Un petit nez retrousse'
renvers les lois d'un empire."

In connection with the ethical treatment of the subject, we may
remark that no other Idyll presents so many moral lessons in those
short, pithily-condensed lines, so handy for quotation, which remind
us of the gnomic verses of Virgil and Sophocles — the purest poets of
antiquity. Take, for example, the following gems, which reflect at
once the rays of genius at its brightest, and of moral beauty at its
best : — :

Man am I grown, man's work must I do.
The thrall in person may htfree in soul.
Accursed who strikes, nor lets his hand be seen.

That Tennyson should naturally endeavour to give an archaic
colouring to his work by an archaic phraseology is no matter of
surprise, though we cannot but regret that he has carried the
endeavour beyond all legitimate bounds by the frequent use of so
many obsolete and obscure terms, much to the mystification of his
readers, and to the mistiness of his own meaning. This we hold to
be the most patent and flagrant fault of a poem which to us is a
garden of delight, abounding and superabounding in flowers and
fruits, the fairest and the sweetest to the taste of the educated
intellect of England.

The Potter of Tours.

LACE for the man who bears the world 1
Not he who rules it from gilded throne,
A puppet made by Fate alone,
Nor he who would float, wide unfurled,
The flag of ruin, dealing death —
But he who, scorning common praise,
Hath shown the world heroic ways,
And trod them first, though with dying breath,
v Looking beyond the present pain,
And seeing held in the hands of Time
The crown of genius, won again
By soul undaunted of line sublime.

The potter of Tours was at work one day,
But his eye had lost its lustrous ray —
Despair looked in at the open door,
Casting his shadow athwart the floor,
And the potters heart was sunk in gloom.
Within the walls of the lowly room
Knowledge had grown that men would prize,
For to the patient spirit came
Art pregnant with immortal fame —
Solutions of deep mysteries :
His deeds were wafted forth of men,
And the marvel grew that one so poor
Had e'en the courage to endure
Such scoffs, such jeers, such toil and pain.
Yet though the couriers that wait
To bruit abroad all lofty deeds,
Had hover d o'er him in his needs,
And borne away to palace gate
Hi6 name, Avisseau ; he who claimed
The title kings and savans named
With wonder, pallid by despair,
Sank reeling backward upon his chair.
Vol. X., N.S. 1873.

S2 The Gentleman9 s Magazine.

Three hundred years had passed away

Since Palissy, who wrought in clay,

Had died, and carried to the grave

The secret none could read and save.

But he, the ceramist of Tours,

Had sworn the tomb should not immure

Science for ever, and had brought

By his own skill and toilsome thought

The buried treasure back to earth.

Yet his success was little worth,

He said to himself, when still there lay

A greater knowledge far away.

" Ah, could I buy one piece of gold

With a whole cupful of my blood!"

He cried — though all his goods were sold —

And loving eyes with tears bedewed

Looked up in his. One moment sad,

His wife gazed on her wedding ring,

Then drew it off with gesture glad,

And held the little sacred thing

Before her husband — " Tis our own :

Then take the gold, and melt it down ! "

The vision of past happy years,

With joys and sorrows, smiles and tears,

Obscured his purpose, but the best

Of all his knowledge was the love

That such high sacrifice' could prove.

He clasped her sobbing to his breast,

And pushed the talisman away :

But she, a woman, had her way.

Over the crucible he stood,

That seemed nigh consecrate with blood,

Clammy through fear both brow and palm,

As, aspen-like, he strove for calm :

Then like a criminal, at last,

The time of agony being past,

He sought his doom — and with swift glance

He knew that he alone did hold

The secret of enamelled gold.

A change came o'er his countenance :

" Forgive me, wife," he fainting cried ;

She, nobly clinging to his side,

The Potter of Tours, 83

Rejoined, " Forgive thee ! Yes, with mine
God's blessing went, and both are thine ! "

And thus the reign of science speeds
From age to age by doughty deeds ;
One labours that the rest may gain
Increase of good, with less of pain.
So wisdom's torch, that must expire
If genius fail, is passed along
By cunning art and poet's song ;
And higher still, and ever higher,
Its flames arise, as men are led
To Him who formed the germ of thought,
Which, being in the darkness wrought,
Brings forth the living from the dead.

George Smith.

g a

((

The Smithfield Club Show.

BY "RUSTICUS."

She's long in her face, she's fine in her horn,
She'll quickly get fat without cake or corn ;
She's clean in her jaws, and full in her chine,
She's heavy in flank, and wide in her loin.

She's broad in her ribs, and long in her rump,
A straight and flat back, without e'er a hump ;
She's wide in her hips, and calm in her eyes,
She's fine in her shoulders, and thin in her thighs.

She's light in her neck, and small inner tail,
She's wide in her breast, and good at the pail ;
She's fine in her bone, and silky of skin,
She's a grazier's without, and a butcher's within.

N fact," as we mentally note while gazing at a ticket
marked jQ%o on our charmer's tail at the Smithfield Club
Show —

" She's all my fancy painted her, she's lovely, she's divine,
But she's sold unto a butcher, she never can be mine."

Whether a visitor to " merrye England '' be from Far Cathay, the
Land of the Rising Sun, or a dweller in Mesopotamia, and beyond
Jordan, he can hardly betake himself to a better place to study the
manners and customs of the English than the Smithfield Club Show.
Nor is the sight of the bovine race, fattened to repletion, and as
bucolic in appearance as John Bull himself, an absolutely repulsive
feature in the exhibition.

Some poet in want of a better theme once wrote :

Xo meaner creatures — scan 'em all —

By fire their food prepare ;
Man is the cooking animal,

And need be nothing mair.

If England is the home of " plum pudding," it is also that of "roast
beef;" and the object of all agricultural shows is to provide mattrid
for the " cooking animal." At the present season, when —

Lposc to festive joy, the country round
Laughs with the loud sincerity of mirth —

many arc the barons of beef scattered over England, emanating from

The Smithfield Club Show. 85

the Smithfield Fat Cattle Show. In the "good old days," when
oxen were roasted whole, and the ordinary bill of fare of a country
squire at Christmas time consisted of

Hogsheads of honey, kilderkins of mustard,
Muttons, and fatted beeves, and bacon swine ;

Herons and bitterns, peacocks, swans, and bustards,
Teal, mallard, pigeons, widgeons, and, in fine,

Plum-puddings, pancakes, apple-pics, and custards,

such "fatted beeves" as those lately exhibited, and many of
which by thfc time have vanished down our readers' throats, existed
not except in the luscious dreams of some epicurean alderman.
Beach's Food for Cattle had not then been invented, and Messrs.
Carter and Co. and Sutton and Co. were not in existence to ransack
foreign lands for the germs of the succulent grasses and roots neces-
sary to the production of prime beef. As our readers are aware, the
breeds of cattle throughout the United Kingdom vary in different
districts, from the small hardy varieties of the northern Highlands
to the bulky and more meat-carrying breeds of the southern parts of
England. Formerly it was customary to classify the whole according
to the comparative length of the horns — as the Long-horned, Short-
horned, Middle-horned, Crumpled-horned, and Hornless or Polled
breeds. Nowadays, however, the various breeds are classified under
the nomenclature of Devons, Herefords, Sussex, Norfolk or Suffolk
polled, Long-horns, Short-horns, Scotch, Irish, Welsh, Cross or
Mixed. Whatever be their breed, there are certain forms and shapes
which cattle* must possess to prove remunerative to their breeders.
We need hardly remark that these peculiarities must be developed to
the utmost to obtain a prize at such a grand competitive exhibition
as the Smithfield Club Show; and we shall enumerate a few "points"
necessary for a " bovine " to possess before receiving attention at
the hands of the judges. If there is one part of the frame the form
of which, more than of any other, renders the animal valuable, it is
the chest. There must be room enough for the heart to beat and
the lungs to play, or sufficient blood for the purposes of nutriment
and strength will not be circulated ; nor will it thoroughly undergo
that vital change which is essential to the proper discharge of every
function. We look, therefore, first of all, to the wide and deep girth
about the heart and lungs. We must have both. The proportion in
which the one or the other may preponderate will depend on the
service we require from the animal ; we can excuse a slight degree of
flatness of the sides, for the beast will be lighter in the forehand,

86 The Gentleman s Magazitie.

and more active; but the grazier must have width as well as
depth. And not only about the heart and lungs, but over
the whole of the ribs, must we have both length and round-
ness ; the hooped as well as the deep barrel is essential ; there
must be room for the capacious paunch, room for the materials
from which the blood is to be provided. The beast should
also be ribbed home; there should be little space between the ribs
and the hips. This seems to be indispensable in the steer, as it
denotes a good healthy constitution, and a propensity to fatten ; but
a largeness and drooping of the belly, notwithstanding that the
symmetry of the animal is impaired, are considered advantageous in
the cow, because room is thus left for the udder; and if these
qualities are accompanied by swelling milk veins, her value in the
dairy is generally increased. This roundness and depth of the barrel,
however, are most advantageous in proportion as found behind the
point of the elbow more than between the shoulders and legs ; or
low down between the legs, rather than upwards towards the withers;
for the heaviness before and the comparative bulk of the coarse parts
of the animal are thus diminished, which is always a very great
consideration. The loins should be wide — of this there can be no
doubt, for they are the prime parts ; they should seem to extend far
along the back ; and although the belly should not hang down, the
flanks should be round and deep. Of the hips it is superfluous to
say that, without being ragged, they should be large ; round rather
than wide, and presenting when handled plenty of muscle and fat
The thighs should be full and long, close together when viewed
from behind, and the farther down they continue close the
better. Shortness of leg is a good general rule, for there is an
almost inseparable connection between length of leg and lightness of
carcase, and shortness of leg and propensity to fatten. The bones
of the legs (and they are taken as samples of the bones of the frame
generally) should be small, but not too much so — small enough for the
well-known accompaniment, a propensity to fatten — small enough
to please the consumer; but not so small as to indicate delicacy
of constitution and liability to disease. Lastly, the hide — the most
important point of all — should be thin, but not so thin as to indicate
that the animal can endure no hardship ; movable, mellow, but not
too loose, and particularly well covered with fine and soft hair. The
dictum of the judges at the SmithfieldClub Show was not disputed,
we believe, in a single instance — which does great credit to their per-
spicuity and impartiality. The exhibition of Devons was remarkably

The Smithfield Club S/iozv. 87

good, and the liking for these cattle amongst breeders is on the
increase. Mr. William A. H. Smith, a well-known breeder, took the
first prize of jC2° m tn*s class, as well as the silver medal ; the third
prize of ^10. going to the same breeder. These animals were as
near perfection as possible, and immeasurably superior to others in
this, the two years and six months old class. In Class 2 for Devons
not exceeding three years and six months old, the first prize of j£$o
and the silver medal fell to Mr. John Overman. The other classes
in this breed were above the average in meat carrying qualities. In
Herefords, Mr. A. Pike took the first prize, Mr. G. Bedford taking
the silver medal for the breeder. The other prizes for Herefords
were awarded with difficulty, there not being "a pin to choose"
between some of the animals. Some of them, however, were a
trifle " leggy," but we must not be too critical, as the general display
was good. The shorthorns, as a class, were up to the mark. In that
for steers not exceeding two years and six months old, Mr. James
Bruce was rightly facile princcps, taking the ^20 prize and the silver
medal for the breeder. A finer " barrelled " animal we never saw.
In Sussex steers Mr. G. Coote took the ^20 prize and silver medal
for breeder in the two years and six months old class. The remaining
•exhibits in this breed were well framed and knit together, realising
high prices from the London butchers. The Norfolk and Suffolk
Polled breed, were it not for the exhibits of H.R.H. the Prince of
Wales, would have been in a minority, as far as excellence is con-
-cerned. The first prize of £ 1 5 went to Sandringham Farm, and so
<lid the second prize in another class. The Scotch Highland steers
were much admired ; for roundness and depth of barrel and width
of loin they could not be surpassed. The first prize of ^30 was
awarded to the Duchess of Athole, the silver medal for the breeder
being taken by the Duke of Athole. In the other classes the display
Avas good, but as the distance is an effectual bar to a large exhibi-
tion of Scotch animals, it must not be taken as a fair criterion of the
sort of beef that can be had north of the Tweed.

Sheep mustered in great numbers. One cannot gaze on this useful
animal without recalling to mind Shakespeare's simile. In the scene
where Gloucester rudely drives the Lieutenant from the side of
Henry VI., the unfortunate monarch thus complains of his helpless-
ness : —

So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf:
So first the harmless sheep doth yield its fleece.
And next his throat unto the butcher's knife.

88 The Gentleman s Magazine.

vv

In the Saxon era the value of a sheep was is. At the time of the
Conquest four sheep were equivalent to an acre of land. In the years-
1041 and 1 125 a pestilent epidemic carried off large quantities in this.
kingdom ; so much so that they became very scarce, and at the close
of the reign of Henry I. sold for 20s., and in his successor's reign at
25 s. The introduction of turnips gave a great impetus to the breeding
of sheep, inasmuch as they provided succulent nourishment during the
long winter. The chief breeds valued nowadays are the Black-faced
Heath, Dorset, Wiltshire, Southdown, Norfolk, and Cheviot. These
species are justly regarded as the most valuable to the butcher, and as-
such are the only ones we care much about seeing at the Smithfield
Club Show. The judges in this department of the exhibition stuck
strictly to the motto, "Pal mam qui meruit fcrat" and the prizes were
well awarded. In the Leicesters, a class of sheep chiefly valuable
for their wool, Mr. F. J. S. Foljambe, the Earl of Lonsdale, and Mr.
W. Brown took respectively the ^20, ^15, and £5 prizes. In Cots-
wolds and Lincolns there was a good show. The Kentish and Cross-
bred long-woolled sheep also were up to killing mark. Southdowns
were worthy of note. The Duke of Richmond, Mr. W. Rigden, and
Lord Sondes took ^20, £1 5, and £$ prizes in this class. Hampshire
or Wiltshire Downs showed well. Shropshire breeds might have carried
more meat. Oxfordshire, Ryland, Cheviot, Dorset, &c, were fair
exhibits. The Mountain Breed had little but the "name" about
them. The cross-bred long and short woolled class were in good
form. As regards "extra stock," we cannot but put in a word of
commendation, many of them being above the average for butchering
purposes.

Taken, however, as an exhibition of good breeding, this department
of the Smithfield Club Show compares badly with that for cattle.
Some breeders do not care for " honour and glory ;" these gentlemen
object to the trouble of going long distances from home to exhibit ;
and for this reason far better animals are sometimes seen at local
agricultural shows. The English and the Chinese are partial to*
swine's flesh, inasmuch as being "hard workers" they appreciate
the heat -giving and strength-sustaining nutriment of the "unclean
animal." Since the days of Gurth the swineherd, England has
been famed for its porkers, but never more so than at the present
moment. Even the Japanese ambassadors stared at the huge
barrels of "live pork," which lay almost sightless, pretty nearly
breathless, side by side in their special department at the Smithfield
Club Show.

The Smithficld Club S/iozv. 89

An old saw has it- -

Fat peasc-fed swine
For drover is fine.

And truly the Hampshire hog, reared par excellence in a pea-growing
district, "for drover is fine !" The crowds that pressed to gaze on
the porcine exhibits must have been seen to be believech The
homage paid by speculative butchers to the prize pigs, who —

Like to the Pontic Monarch of old days

■ Fed on poisons ; and they had no power,

But Were a kind of nutriment !

And, pray, what will jwt a pig devour ? In olden times Thomas
Tusser warned pig breeders that —

Through plenty of acorns, the porkling too fat,
Not taken in season, may perish by that.
If rattling or swelling once get to the throat,
Thou losest thy porkling— a crown to a groat.

In modern times there is not much fear of Hampshire hogs choking
themselves with acorns, unless given on a " charger " by their careful
attendant, who offers a modicum of Hope's Food with all the
deference he would use to an alderman asking for turtle. Truly pigs
have undergone a change since the days when the Mysian Olympus
was laid waste and Croesus robbed of his heir. A fine beast, too, must
have been that of Erymanthus, which gave Hercules such a job. True
we have " learned pigs,'' descendants of the prophetic Lavinian sow ;
but for a good juicy-looking morccau commend us to " No. 368," at
the Smithfield Club Show, bred by Her Majesty at the Prince
Consort's Show Farm, Windsor. This favoured animal took the
^10 prize, as well as the silver medal for his royal breeder. Truly,
this favoured porker may, for aught we know, be a descendant of
the porci bimestrcs, which Juvenal epicureanly termed animal propter*
convivia natum. In the Pigs of Any Breed class Mr. H. A. Brassey,
M.P., took the £\o prize and silver medal for the breeder. All the
other exhibits in pigs were excellent, and a credit, not only to their
breeders, but to the country at large.

The agricultural implements at the Smithfield Club Show have
become a special feature in this annual exhibition. The perpetual
"bragging'* of the agricultural labourer, and the threatening attitude
assumed towards fanners, have led the yeomanry to demand from
manufacturers as many machines as possible, to enable them to dis-
pense with " field hands." Amongst the best of modern implements

90 The Gentleman's Magazine.

was Messrs. Marshall, Sons, and Co.'s thrashing and finishing machine,
which is of very compact design, all the working parts, including the
elevator, being contained within the frame and being thus protected
from the effects of weather and rough usage. Everything is so
arranged that the work can be carried on in the most convenient
manner, the straw and canings being delivered from the front of the
machine, and the chaff cleaned and delivered into bags at the side,
while the finished corn is deposited into sacks at the back. The
construction is in every respect very substantial, the whole of the
framing is of the best seasoned oak, while the drum and breastwork
.are of wrought iron, and the drum spindles, shaker, and shoe cranks
are of steel ; all the shaft bearings are of good length with substantial
brasses, and well protected from dust and dirt.

It was to a machine of the same class that the judges awarded the
first prize of ^40 at the Royal Agricultural Society's Show in July
last (the only difference being that the Cardiff machine was fitted
with a " Rainforth's Patent Separating Screen"), and we cannot be
surprised at the short but very satisfactory comment passed upon it
in the Royal Agricultural Society's Report : — "An exceedingly well-
made machine." Referring to the table of results published by the
society, we observe that in two trials of wheat-thrashing, 405 and 406
points respectively were made, in barley 427, while in oats the high
number of 447 points were recorded out of a possible total of 450,
and this notwithstanding the fact that malicious damage had been
done to the screen of the machine during the night before the trials,
which could only be hastily repaired upon the ground with such
rough and ready appliances as happened to be at hand. We are
informed that Messrs. Marshall, Sons, and Co. have during the past
year more than doubled the extent of their works at Gainsborough,
and have just completed, among other buildings, one of the finest
engine-erecting shops in the kingdom.

Messrs. E. R. and F. Turner, of Ipswich, are a firm familiar to agricul-
turists and others from their celebrated crushing mills, which continue
to gain renown for the manufacturers, and have recently been awarded
the silver medal by the Royal Society of the Netherlands, at the
Hague. The firm showed several varieties of these crushers, but
they need no description or prrise from us, their utility having stood
the test of long experience. Two specimens of the R. A. S. E.
first prize grinding mills with French stones, 3 feet and 2)2 feet in
diameter, were also on view, and they appeared still to merit the high
encomium given them by the Royal Agricultural Society's judges at

The Smithfield Club Show. 91

Oxford, that they were " exceedingly well made." A malt mill, with
compound wedge adjustment, for ensuring equal wear on the faces of
the rolls, was also shown at this stand, as well as oilcake breakers
for hand power, the larger of the two being provided with two sets of
rolls, so as to reduce cake to the smallest size, with less wear to the
teeth, and with less power than in the ordinary machines.

Besides mills of all kinds for preparing food for stock, &c,
E. R. and F. Turner are celebrated as manufacturers of small
thrashing sets of three to five-horse power, which, to judge from the
specimen exhibited, they have succeeded in bringing to a high state
of efficiency. The set exhibited was of five-horse power, the engine-
being well proportioned and of substantial construction. The
thrasher was four feet wide and of the double blast. finishing class.
Strict attention to practical utility in design and constructive excel-
lence in these small thrashing sets has obtained for this firm a
leading position in their manufacture, and they are in large demand
in districts where the transport of larger and heavier machines would
be impossible. Another great advantage attaching to them is the
small number of hands necessary to work them, while their capacity
— />., the work done by them — is by no means small. The makers
assert that a careful account would show that in a season as much
would be earned by a small thrashing set as by a large one, the smaller
having an advantage in the facility with, which it may be removed
and set to work, and delay thus avoided. The gold medal of the
Royal Society of the Netherlands was awarded to one of these
thrashers at the Hague in September last.

Messrs. Howard, of Bedford, the well-known steam plough manu-
facturers, exhibited some magnificent implements, which can be seen
daily at work on their own grounds. Messrs. Richmond and
Chandler showed, amengst other implements, their well-known
thrashing machines, which have taken first prizes of the Royal
Societies of England, Scotland, and Ireland, also the silver medals
of the International Exhibitions at London and Paris. The principal
features in their new chaff machines consist in an entirely new form
of mouthpiece, so constructed that however irregularly the machine
may be fed, and whatever quality of hay or straw may be placed
therein, /'/ nrccr chokes. The surface of the mouthpiece is made of
steel, and this has the advantage of presenting the same smooth edge
as long as the machine lasts ; the knives are also kept sharper on the
steel face than when cutting against cast iron. There is also an ex-
panding jaw to the mouthpiece, which jaw is hinged to the axle of

92 The Gentleman s Magazine.

the upper toothed roller, and is pressed down by a hand-screw so as
to securely hold the material being cut, while admitting of consider-
able alteration according to the nature of the substance acted upon.
A travelling web is introduced in place of the ordinary bed of the
feeding box, which is a material help to the attendant, particularly,
in the larger machines, relieving him of the labour of pulling the hay
or straw forward, and allowing him to concentrate his entire attention
on the feed. A handle is placed at the side of the machine, by which
two lengths of cut are obtained, and the same handle acts upon a
stop motion to arrest the rollers at any moment.

Messrs. Isaac James and Son exhibited, amongst other thingsy
an excellent manure cart, and a capital roller and clod crusher.
Messrs. E. Page and Co. maintained their reputation as manufacturers-
of agricultural implements; as also did Messrs. Underhill. Mr.
Benjamin Edgington, of Duke Street, London Bridge, as usual had
to show something useful for farmers in his rick cloths, marquees,
tents, &c. ; as well as a light, strong, pliable cloth for waggon and
cart covers. Messrs. Burney and Co. exhibited some excellent water
carts and cisterns.

Carriages may be considered one of the best features at the
Smithfield Club Show. In this line Mr. Thorn, of Norwich, showed
some first-class workmanship. Amongst other things, we would
specially select for commendation his Norfolk shooting cart, with
" adjustable shafts." Mr. Inwood, of St. Albans, showed, amongst
others, a very pretty dogcart, which attracted much attention. Mr.
Ayshford, of Britannia Works, Fulham, exhibited his patent dogcart,
which was much admired. Mr. Boxall, of Grantham, also displayed
a serviceable shooting cart and very pretty park phaeton. Mr. Samuel
Smith, of Suffolk, the inventor of the now well-known Perithreon, ex-
hibited a brougham, possessing a "magic door," capable of being
opened and closed by the driver from his seat, by a very simple piece
of mechanism. Messrs. Day, Son, and Hewitt, the well-known makers
of .the " stock-breeder's medicine chests," had many visitors to their
stall in search of the panacea for "foot and mouth disease." »

The sewing machines exhibited by Messrs. Newton, Wilson, and
Co. attracted much attention from country visitors. The Howe
Sewing Machine Company's stand was also a centre of attraction
— or, rather, the young lady was, on account of the deftness dis-
played by her machine in what, we were informed, is technically
known as " braiding " amongst ladies. No show could be complete
without Bradford's "Vowel" Washing Machines, upon whiefe, as

The Smith field Club Shoiu. 93

usual, there was a great " run." In garden furniture and requisites
Mr. Alfred Pierce showed some novelties. Altogether, what we
41 jotted" down at the time as worthy of notice seems upon reading
over quite like an account of the contents of an Agricultural Exhibi-
tion, which indeed is a true description of this great annual show.
No other country could produce anything like it, and Englishmen
may well be proud of such an institution, devoted to the develop-
ment of stock, produce, and agricultural implements. Although the
London streets did not appear to us to indicate so many visitors as
usual, the show was in this respect one of the most successful on
record.

Stranger than Fiction,

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON." "THE

VALLEY OF POPPIES," &c.

CHAPTER XLII.

OF CERTAIN EMIGRANTS ON BOARD THE " HESPERUS ; " AND CON-
CERNING A WELL KNOWN MELODY THAT LED TO A DELIGHTFUL
DISCOVERY.

Y the kindness of Mr. Williams, Jacob was enabled at
once to throw up his Dinsley engagement ; and, on the
invitation of Mr. Horatio Johnson (with whom Mr.
Williams had recently spent a day at Middleton), he
took Liverpool on his way into the Principality of Wales, for the
purpose of bidding adieu to a party of emigrants in whose welfare he
was deeply interested.

It was a calm summer night, when Jacob and the Doctor, and
Mrs. Horatio Johnson, and Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Titsy, sat in a
corner of the best cabin of the Hesperus, bound to Canada. The
moonlight was streaming in upon them through the cabin window ;
Mrs. Johnson was plying her knitting needles, and looking up occa-
sionally to make a remark ; the Doctor was detailing to Jacob his
views about the future, and the comparative ease with which money
begot money in the colonies ; Tom was listening to the Doctor and
smiling at Susan ; and Jacob was wishing them all sorts of success
and happiness, Vhenever a lull occurred in the conversation, and
exacting promises of frequent letters.

The parting hour came at last. Mrs. Johnson, though in her heart
she could not altogether forgive Jacob, for we know what, united in
the general feeling of sorrow at leaving him ; but happy in their own
goodness and honest affection, not one of the four had any regrets in
setting out for a new home far away from scenes which were asso-
ciated with so many bitter memories. Jacob took his leave with
much real emotion ; and an hour afterwards stood gazing at a ship
that was disappearing in the moonlight, to be followed by other
vessels which other people would look after and wave handkerchiefs
at, and weep about, and dream of in the silent watches of the night
On the following afternoon Jacob arrived at the first stage in his

Stranger than Fiction. 95

Welsh journeying, and found at the post-office, Neathville, according
to prior arrangement, a bundle of proofs of his first book. To read
these was, at that time, a labour of love indeed, even though the
labour continued long after the sun had disappeared, and the moon
had risen again — the same moon that was looking down on the
emigrant ship, .and making long white tracks on the distant ocean
which now rolled between Jacob and his old friends.

Neathville was a quiet, mossy old place, with the sea in front, and
on every other side a country studded with grey ruins of old walls
and castles, the histories of which are a rich mine of instruction,
poetry, and romance. The Flemish found the town a fishing village,
and, struck with its many natural advantages, settled there, and,
assisted by Norman allies, fortified the place ; but the Welsh many-
years afterwards surprised the settlers, put them to the sword, and razed
the fortifications to the ground. From that period (somewhere about
the eleventh century), until after the advent of Oliver Cromwell, the
history of Neathville had been one of great interest — a story of war
and tribulation, of piracy and bloodshed, of sack and famine, of
heroism and bravery ; and in all quarters the antiquary could lay his
fingers upon some fine memento of the greatness and the littleness
of past ages. There was an old castle ; a grey church, filled with
quaint memorials ; some ruined walls, the remains of a priory ; two
medicinal springs, and many other attractions ; besides the frirtge of
rocks which skirted the bay and ran out, in picturesque pinnacles,
into the sea.

At the period of my story, the fine sandy beach was not the prome-
nade of fast gentlemen from town, looking through eye-glasses at fast
ladies from the same place; nor had the donkey driver even made his
appearance. At the most fashionable hour in the day Jacob saw
only a few groups of people on the immense tract of beach, which
stretched away until it seemed to join the clouds at a famous point,
where many a ship had been lured to destruction in the dark days of
the wreckers.

Musing with his own thoughts, which were chiefly occupied with
the design of writing a full explanation of his position to Lucy, and
endeavouring to fix an interview which should be final " for weal or
woe," Jacob was returning home one evening not long after his
arrival in Neathville, when, as if in response to his feelings, there fell
upon- his ear the faint melody of a strain so familiar to. him that at
first he thought it but the creation of his own fancy. A treacherous
memory and a strong imagination will sometimes play strange tricks
with the senses ; but Jacob was soon convinced that the music which.

qG The Gentleman 's Magazine.

he heard was a charming reality. It stole over the rocks, in undu-
lating cadences, and transported him back to days of yore, as com-
pletely as though he had been, under some such spell as Mesmer
might have worked, taking the reason prisoner, and planting the mind
with whatever picture the enchanter willed. Jacob was again in the
garden at Middleton, with the morning sun shining upon him, amidst
the sounds of falling waters, and the songs of birds.

There is a happy land,
Far, far away.

High over the rocks above him, from a noble half-castellated house,
came the well-known music ; and, as Jacob listened, all the sensa-
tions of hope and fear and doubt and dread which he had felt when
he looked on the footprints in the snow at Cartown replaced the
first thoughts of the old home and the garden-paradise. There was
only one voice which could sing that song so sweetly, so plaintively.
A harp accompaniment added to the effect of the dear old melody,
and with the murmur of the sea as a deep bass, and Jacob's own
strong imagination and memories of happy times, my readers will
readily believe that the music was an attraction which Jacob did not
desire to resist.

To go round by the regular path, to reach .the house situated on,
the summit of the rocks, were a tedious process indeed for Jacob in
his present mood. Straight to the house whence the music came
was his only course. Away he went with the alacrity of a practised
climber. There had been a time when his mind would not, under
similar circumstances, have strayed for a moment from the object
of his climbing ; but now that he was an author, the demon of
4,1 copy," which sometimes startles writers at all hours, suggested to
him what a capital situation it would be, supposing he were writing
a story out of his own experiences, to make himself fall over the
rocks and be discovered by his mistress just in time to save his
precious life, and once more swear eternal love to each other.

Jacob did not fall, although his path was made additionally dan-
gerous by the starting up, here and there, of flocks of sea-birds, which
filled the air with their peculiar cries, compelling him to pause and
listen for the music to the source of which he was hurrying. He
had scarcely reached the summit when the melody changed to a new
and an unknown one ; but, a few moments afterwards, when he had
stepped aside from the full view of the room with its tall windows
opening out upon a lawn, Jacob detected in the new song some
simple words which he had written for Lucy Cantrill when he was a
schoolboy and had dreams by the Cartown river.

Stranger than Fiction. 97

I have said that the windows were wide open. Screening himself
behind a figure of Neptune, which stood in the centre of the lawn,
Jacob looked into the room, as an erring mortal, tempted by Naiad
strains, might have gazed into some sea-beat grot. How like and
yet how unlike his Lucy was the lady who now sat conjuring from a
Welsh harp music that Ariel might have made in Prospero's island !

Jacob's heart told him quickly enough who was the musician.
Still the old times did not seem so distinct, now that he looked upon
her once more, as they had appeared when he heard the factory
hymn coming over the rocks ten minutes previously. Then he had
thought of Lucy as he saw her under the apple tree in Cantrilj's
little garden; of Lucy in her straw hat, simple bodice, and pro-
vincial skirts, walking by his side with just sufficient coquettish-
ness to fill him full of doubts and fears, and excite the wish that
he were old enough to marry her, lest perchance some more gallant
knight should carry her off. But now he saw another Lucy, and yet
the sqpne. The soft blue eyes as of yore, the sweet full lip, the hair
a shade darker, the figure taller, and that of a woman. It was Lucy
refined, not so much by fashion as by education, and the effect of
living in an aristocratic atmosphere ; it was the beautiful girl of the
old times grown into the lovely woman, and bearing all the impress
of the Great Artist's finishing touches.

By-and-by the hand which had wandered over the strings fell
gently by the performer's side, and the lady looked upwards; it
seemed to Jacob as though her eyes were fixed upon him. A
moment previously he had hurriedly decided to present himself at
the house in the usual manner, and inquire for Miss Thornton,
fearing that the more romantic fashion of walking in at the window
after a scramble over the rocks would alarm her. But that might
not be, for Lucy came forth, passed across the lawn, close by where
he stood, and leaning over the terrace which surmounted the rocks,
looked pensively out to sea. Jacob felt that he could not escape
without attracting her attention. He walked quietly towards her,
and with his heart beating a tattoo, he whispered " Lucy."

The lady turned round with a startled, doubtful look. Jacob put
forth his arms, and in another moment Air. Cavendish Thornton's
matrimonial schemes were scattered to the winds for ever.

Jacob went to his hotel that night the happy fellow of whom he had
once or twice only ventured to dream. He had told Lucy his story,
and she had said something about her own. He needed no confession
Vol. X. N.S., 1873. H

98 The Gentleman s Magazine.

of her love ; of its truth and constancy he had sufficient evidence
in the singing of those simple words, which had been a boyish tribute
to her in the golden days of Cartown. He was certainly puzzled to
know why she had not received his letters ; though he was hardly
surprised that her inquiries concerning himself had been unsuccess-
ful. He cared little or nothing about these minor circumstances
now. He could not, however, help noticing that they seemed greatly
to disturb Lucy, who made him promise to make some inquiries
concerning the letters which he had addressed to her at Cartown.
He fulfilled this promise at once, and by the same post wrote to
Ginghems to say that he should not be prepared. to send "copy"
for the Welsh work so quickly as he had at first anticipated. Neath-
ville, he said, had charmed him almost beyond description. He
should never be sufficiently grateful to them for sending him into
Wales. It had opened up a world of romance to him. They would
be surprised when he told them of his great discovery in the Princi-
pality. Jacob chuckled at the hidden waggery of his letter. He
wrote a most mad epistle to Windgate Williams, who really fearedf
Jacob's success had suddenly turned his head.

CHAPTER XLIII.

A STORM ON THE WELSH COAST.

The reader was prepared by a conversation between Lucy and
Dorothy for Miss Thornton's departure from London. The belle of the
season had either grown tired of the restraints of Mayfair, or she had
seriously felt her educational deficiencies, or she was bored by the Hon.
Max Walton, or she had had a severe relapse into Jacob Martynism.
I am hardly in a position to explain the young lady's reasons for her
almost sudden determination to leave town. She wanted to go before
her first season was really over ; and above all things she would insist
upon her uncle keeping her retreat a secret. Mr. Thornton induced her
to stay in town until Lord John and his brother Max Walton began to
make their arrangements for grouse shooting ; but Lucy was firmness
itself in her determination that her address should not be known for
a long time, and that no visitors- should be invited to Lydstep House.
Her uncle had been a good deal troubled by Lucy's plans, which
excluded a return to town for two or three years. He would not
hear of this. Then she would go abroad, ever so far away, where it
was impossible to get back for years. Had anything occurred in
town to offend or annoy her? No. Was there anything he could do

Stranger than Fiction. 99

to make London more agreeable to her? No; she had no objection
to London. When she felt competent by education and ordinary
accomplishments to take her position in town, she would return.
She was competent ; she was the queen of the season ; her accom-
plishments had a freshness that was charming ; she might marry into
the noblest family in the land at once, if she would ; she was worthy
of her name, worthy of all their gallery of ancestral portraits, worthy
of the highest state. Mr. Thornton grew eloquent in his praises, and
entreated the young beauty to reconsider her plans ; but Lucy kissed
him and was adamant

Lydstep House was the family residence of some friends of Mr.
Thornton who had gone abroad for three or four years, and Lucy
accepted the offer of it at once, without seeing it ; and the place
turned out all that could be desired. Mr. Thornton had visited his
wayward niece as frequently as his old habits would permit. He had
been content to hunt his grouse and shoot them in Wales instead of
Scotland for her sake during two seasons. Only two days prior to
Jacob's unexpected appearance on the scene, he had once more
arrived on a long visit to his lovely niece, who was accompanied in
her retreat by Mr. Thornton's housekeeper, and two awfully clever
and learned companion teachers of art, science, and languages — ladies
who had sounded the depths of all educational systems, who had
dived into the hidden mysteries of science, and who had soared on
the wings of inspiration into the highest realms of art Lucy professed
to be a wonderfully earnest and industrious pupil of these vestals of
learning, tyit she seemed to devote most of her time to music and
drawing, and her sketch books were full of pictures that she called
"reminiscences." They were rough studies of cottages, country
stiles and walks, bits of brook scenery, glimpses of woodland nooks ;
and one of the vestals had expressed to the other some serious alarm
at the young lady's monotonous kind of pleasures. But Lucy in her
own quiet way had impressed upon their minds that she was the
mistress of Lydstep House, and that she had a will of her own apart
from Mr. Thornton's ; they therefore kept their private views of Miss
Thornton's habits to themselves, and had nothing but praises of her
mind, her intellect, and her amiability for the ear of her uncle.

A few days after Jacob Martyn's sudden appearance at Lydstep
House, Mr. Cavendish Thornton, as was his wont, having partaken
of coffee and dry toast in his own apartment, went into Lucy's
morning room to have a chat with his niece.

" I want to talk seriously to you, sir, this morning," said Lucy the
moment her uncle entered the room.

: : •'- ::' '\: h 2

ioo The Gentleman s Magazine.

"What is the matter, my child?" said Mr. Thornton, taking her
hand. " Your lip is trembling, and you look angry."

" I think I am angry," said Lucy, " but I do not wish to be angry,
only firm ; you have done me a great wrong, uncle, and yourself too."
"Lucy, what is the meaning of this strange manner?"
"You have sacrificed me to family pride," said Lucy; "accepting
a trust from one who laid down his life for the honour of his family
and the glory of his king, you have betrayed it ; you have allowed
me to go on doubting the truest heart that ever beat, and you have
almost driven me into marrying out of spite a person I could never
love."

Contemplating the abyss upon which her woman's judgment had
tottered, Lucy was almost beside herself with anger against him who
had stood between her and Jacob.

" Lucy, you are mad or I am dreaming," said Mr. Thornton, his
ever}r action betokening the greatest amazement

" I am not mad, uncle ; you are not dreaming. It is now four
years since you found me a happy girl, and you have made my life
a burden to me."

" Lucy, Lucy !" exclaimed her unde.

" What did I care for fortune, when you had thrust from me all
I cared to live for?"

Lucy had satisfied herself, in a conversation with Allen, that Mr.
Thornton had intercepted her letters to Jacob and kept back Jacob's
letters to herself.

" I do not understand you, niece ; and all my love for you will not
permit me to listen to this language. Since first I had the happiness
of restoring you to the world, and fulfilling a sacred trust confided to
me by my nephew and by your father, you have been continually in
my thoughts ; it has been my chief delight to sacrifice myself for
your happiness."

" Happiness I" exclaimed Lucy, with sorrowful dignity and with a
composure before which Mr. Thornton grew confused and troubled.
" Happiness ! Was it not enough that my poor mother should die
of a broken heart, that my dear, dear father, should have his last
moments embittered by your miserable family pride? Was not
this a sufficient sacrifice, but the Thornton blood, the Thornton
escutcheon, the Thornton portrait gallery should demand another
victim ?"

"When you are mistress of yourself, Miss Thornton," said her
uncle, " I will listen to you : meanwhile I will seek elsewhere for
information concerning the change which has come over you.

Stranger than Fiction . i o i

Ingratitude is not a Thdrnton vice. You are not well, Lucy;
you are not yourself."

Mr. Thornton began to have some faint idea of the situation ; but
he was too much overcome to collect his thoughts and meet it

" Do not leave me, uncle," said Lucy ; " I will try and be calm.
Pray sit down ; we must understand each other now."
. " Then be good enough without this strange declamation — which is
an accomplishment I did not know you possessed, my child — to
explain yourself."

" I will," said Lucy, the tears starting in her eyes. " When you
found me I was happy, if I was poor. What have riches to do with
happiness ?"

A great deal, thought Mr. Thornton.

" I was poor, but contented and happy in the love of one who, if
he had neither name nor fortune to recommend his suit, would not
have soiled his fingers with dishonour ; no, not for a dukedom."

Mr. Thornton now saw the situation clearly, and at once chided
himself mentally for thinking that he could hope to turn that youthful
attachment which Allen had discovered in the first hours of their
triumphant discovery of the Thornton heiress.

" You knew of my engagement, and you broke it ruthlessly by
improper means ; you did not even take the trouble to consider
whether he was worthy of my love ; you did not even seek to know
the secret of my own heart ; you intercepted his letters."

Mr. Thornton winced at this. It was a blow ; it struck his pride
roughly ; it brought the colour into his face.

" Yes, leagued with your own servant, to make me doubt a true
and noble heart ; and I was weak enough to believe ill of him. The
Thornton blood was not noble enough to give me a true woman's
strength, and faith, and generosity. I have behaved like the wretched
thing I had nearly become — a lady of fashion, a queen in society, a
West-end belle. I despise myself for the very narrowness of my

Be calm, Lucy; be calm," said Mr. Thornton. He did not
know what else to say. That reference to the letters was a blow
which seemed to render him helpless.

Between her tears Lucy's eyes flashed anger, sorrow, and indigna-
tion. She sobbed and paced the room like one distraught

" And to think that I should have doubted him I " she went on.
" To think that finery and jewels and those empty dolls in the Row
should have overshadowed his image, should have dimmed the
remembrance of that last day at Cartown ! To think that Mr. Max

102 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Walton, a lord's son, who makes bets on his conquest of a woman,
should have filled the very smallest comer of my thoughts for a
moment ! To think that I could not have guessed what had been
done to deceive me ! *

" Be calm," said Mr. Thornton again, " you do not think what you
say."

" Oh, Mr. Thornton ! Uncle, if you will," said Lucy, softening.
" Was this worthy of you ? Was this worthy of your great and noble
ancestors ?" .

"Damme if I think it was !" exclaimed the old man, starting up
from his seat and striding across the room. "I never was in such an
infernal fix in my life. Ton my soul I don't quite know where I am.
If they had told me that my niece Lucy could have abused her proud
old uncle in this strain I would have said they lied. Damme, I would
have fought my own brother to the death for half the accusations she
has made against me. But a woman ! — what the devil are you to do
with a woman T

As Lucy softened in her manner, Mr. Thornton began to be tempes-
tuous. He had no other resource. He did not know what to do or
say. Lucy having given full rein to her anger, now, like a woman,
found relief in sympathetic tears.

"Uncle, I am only a woman," she said. "I have been sorely tried.
I did not mean to say all I have said. I know it is all a mistake."

" Mistake, damme ! A fine mistake," said Mr. Thornton, marching
about the room.

" I know you did not mean to be unkind ; you would have made
me a queen if you could."

" Unkind, damme ! — heaven forgive me for swearing in presence of
a lady — nothing was farther from my thoughts."

Lucy followed him as he paced the room.

" I have no doubt you thought it was for my own good."

" Good ! — I would have died for you. Damme, I would have done
factory work myself for you sooner than you should have been
unhappy !"

Lucy took his hand. The two went marching away from one end
of the room to the other.

" I could never marry Max Walton," said Lucy.

" Damn Max Walton ! — shade of the Thorntons forgive me — you
shall not be coerced."

Lucy slipped her arm through her uncle's, and laid her head on his.
shoulder.

"Forgive me, uncle — dear uncle," she said in her winning
voice.

Stranger than Fiction. 103

Colonel Thornton stopped suddenly. " God bless you, my child,"
he exclaimed, and the next moment he was fairly sobbing over her.

" I could not bear to lose your good opinion, Lucy, to say nothing
of your love; it was as much that old fool Allen's fault as mine; I am
as big an ass as he is; forgive me, darling ; promise never to say an
unkind word again to me; I'm only an old woman, a silly old woman;
I could not get on at all without you, Lucy, my dear, dear child."

The old man stroked her head and fondled her hands.

"lam so very very sorry," sobbed Lucy. " I ought to have ex-
plained myself to you long ago, ought to have told you all ; it is I
who am to blame."

" No, no, my dear Lucy ; say no more about it ; put your arms
round my neck ; I had a little sister like you when I was a boy; she
died when I was a boy, too ; I am an old man now, Lucy, a very old
man ; there, my dear child, there, there !"

The subdued old man rocked Lucy to and fro in, his arms and
crooned over her, and Lucy was stung with remorse and sorrow so
deeply that at last she fainted and lay still as if she were dead.

The shock was very brief; Lucy opened her eyes at the first drop
of water which the old man hurriedly flung in her face.

" Don't ring," she whispered. " I shall be better in a moment"

He bathed her temples, and kissed her, and chafed her hands, and
the colour returned to her cheeks.

" Let me ring for a little sherry," he said calmly, and wiping all
traces of emotion from his face.

" Yes, dear," said Lucy.

" Bring some sherry and a biscui t," said Mr. Thornton.

When the wine was brought and the servant had disappeared, the
old man filled a glass for Lucy, which he insisted upon her drinking
at once.

" Now Lucy, one more — you must drink this. I am going to pro-
pose a toast" Lucy smiled and took the glass.

"His health," said the Colonel, emptying his glass and turning it
up German fashion.

Lucy sipped her wine and looked up at her uncle, her eyes full of
gratitude and love.

" What has passed is to be a secret, Lucy."
Yes, dear," said Lucy.
And now, my child, where is hi ?"

" In Neathville," said Lucy, her eyes seeking the ground.

** Thought so," said her uncle. " Let him come to me, Lucy —
let him come at once."

a

it

104 The Gentleman's Magazine.

"Yes, dear uncle/' said Lucy; "and you have forgiven my rash
and cruel and unkind words ?"

" We will forgive each other," said the Colonel. " Let us seal a
bond of peace and love."

He took her face in both his hands, kissed her tenderly, patted her
head, and saying, " Let him come to me at once," left the room.

CHAPTER XLIV.

AFTER THE STORM.

Two lovers wandering by the sea. That was the picture of the
calm which followed. Two lovers walking hand in hand, with the
sea playing a quiet, soothing accompaniment to their thoughts.
The storm was over. The tempest had left behind the calm which
always follows passion. I fear Messrs. Ginghem, of Paternoster Row,
London, would not have been quite satisfied with Jacob's last letter
if they could have been witnesses of his occupation just then.

It was a sunny summer evening. The dreamy music of the
ebbing water fell like balm upon the spirit It awakened sympathetic
responses in two beating hearts. It was full of a sweet solace.
Lucy's thoughts wandered dreamily to London, where the season
was throbbing and pulsating and boiling up and steaming like a hot
spring. She thought of herself sauntering down the Row, then
sauntering home to dress for dinner, with Max Walton lingering
at her side, trying to win his bet ; she saw herself being taken in
to dinner by Lord Folden ; she heard her praises being sung
later on at night by Lady Miffits ; and she shuddered at the narrow
escape she had had of a fashionable life in the Max Walton sense.
A little more heartlessness, she thought, a little less love of Jacob
and the old days, and she would have ridden straightway into the
thick of it ; a little looser rein, away she would have gone, establish-
ing herself on that giddy height of vanity to which her uncle and
Max Walton would have led her. She would have outshone other
women both in beauty and jewels, until a new belle came to take the
town by storm, and eclipse her, and tear her heart with jealousy.
And what would have become of Jacob Martyn ?

The quiet music of the ocean summoned Jacob's thoughts back to
Middleton and the cottage at Cartown. There was one transient
shadow upon his happiness just then. There was a pang of regret in
the thought that his father was not living to see the sunshine of
Lucy's face, and to know that his only son was going to be successful
and happy at last

Stranger than Fiction. 105

11 And you came here quite by chance ?" said Lucy, after they had
walked a long distance in a subdued happy silence.

" Unless a kind fate, pitying my misery, brought me here," says
Jacob, looking into her clear, loving eyes.

" Perhaps that is why it led me here first I can never forgive
myself for doubting you, Jacob ! But I do not think I did quite
doubt you. It used to make me very, very miserable to think that
the day might come when I should"

"We will not speak, dearest, of such a possibility. I once
doubted you, Lucy, and then I almost doubted our good Father
Himself; for it seemed as if I had lost everything in earth and
heaven."

" My dear Jacob!" said Lucy, leaning her head upon his shoulder.

" Ah ! my dear, sweet girl, you will never know how much I love
you ; and how grateful I am to you for the happiness of knowing
that you love me — you do, dear, don't you ?"

Jacob liked to hear her say so.

" Love you ! my own dear Jacob ! But do you lemember when I
was a little coquettish, when I appeared to be angry at your coming
to the cottage on a cleaning day ?"

" Can I ever forget any moment pf my life spent with you 1"

" How Lady Mary Miffits would stare to hear me talk of a cleaning
day. Poor dear 1 she would not know what I meant."

" Who is Lady Miffits ?"

44 No one whom you know, dear ; she chaperoned me through my
first season in town, when I was the belle. They said I was the belle."

Lucy blushed, and Jacob, looking round to see that they had the
little bit of bay quite to themselves, put his arm round her waist
and kissed her. He was compensated for all his misery. How
completely a long-looked-for, long-desired happiness shuts out the
pain we have suffered in reaching the prize ! The happy land that
once was so far away, he had reached it The far-off haven that
seemed impossible to win across a sea of storm and quicksand, he
had gained the longed-for anchorage.

What a story they had to tell each other ! There were some
rounded clumps of rock in this little bay, and the lovers sat down
to bill and coo and talk and repeat their vows, and look out upon
the sea where a long streak of red gold like a path led the way to
a land of glorious crimson. They were surprised to see how soon
it faded out, the cold blue of the east gaining intensity the while,
and showing at length a marble moon wandering in a little company
of twinkling stars.

106 The Gentlematis Magazine.

It was late when they returned to the house on the cliffs, and Lucy
was framing all kinds of excuses for her uncle. She had no idea the
time had gone so quickly. They had so many things to talk about.
Jacob had been parted from her so long that she kept him gossiping
about a hundred things. She hoped uncle had not been troubled
about her long absence. She had brought Mr. Martyn to plead and
explain for her. But the little speech was not needed. The steamer
which had paddled out to sea while they sat in the little bay had Mr.
Cavendish Thornton on board.

"He left this note for you, miss," said Allen, breathing hard
and staring at Jacob. "It was- sudden — master's going; but I
were to say that he left his love for you and Mr. Martyn, and this
note."

" Dear uncle ! " exclaimed Lucy at this kind and touching message,
implying that all her hopes and wishes were realised. Jacob's heart
beat proudly and with a deep gratitude. The significance of the
message lifted him into the skies. He had come prepared to be
proud and firm and brave with Mr. Cavendish Thornton ; come pre-
pared to justify himself in what he conceived would be an angry
altercation ; and Mr. Thornton had not only left the field clear but
with signals of amity. Jacob's good star was indeed in the ascendant.

" My darling niece," read Lucy, through a dim halo that gathered
about her eyes, " we have forgiven each other ; we will forget ail that
is disagreeable in the past ; but you will never leave your poor old
selfish uncle."

"My noble, good uncle, never," said Lucy, the mist gathering
before her eyes still more densely. " Read it for me, Jacob."

"Desire Mr. Martyn," continued Jacob, reading the letter in a
voice of emotion, " to follow me to London in two or three days ; I
have gone by my favourite route, vid Bristol by steamer."

"We saw it leaving the bay, my dear uncle 1" said Lucy between
her tears.

" Do not be surprised at my sudden return ; tell Mr. Martyn it is on
his account ; there are many arrangements to make. He will give me
the address of his solicitor, and we shall soon put matters in proper
form. There is another steamer to Bristol in three days from this, if
he likes that route ; or he can take the coach to Newport and on to
Gloucester, where he will get a train. Tell him I am very jealous of
him. If I see that silly brother of Lord Folden's, I will put you
right with him ; he never thought you were very much in earnest"

" Poor Max," said Lucy, smiling now and looking a trifle archly at
Jacob.

Stranger than Fiction. 107

"Who is Max, dear ?" said Jacob.

" Max Walton, the Honourable Max Walton, sir," said Lucy, wiping
away the last traces of her tears, " one of my admirers."

Jacob smiled, but for a moment he was jealous; only for a moment,
and then he finished the letter. " Ever, my dear niece, yours most
affectionately, Cavendish Thornton.,,

" God bless him," said Lucy, at which moment Allen returned to'
say dinner was on the table.

" Dinner !" said Lucy, in astonishment.

" Unless you have dined," said Allen.

"Oh, no," said Lucy, "but"

Allen left the room.

" Have you dined ?" said Lucy.

" Yes, on kisses without the bread and cheese of the proverb,"
said Jacob, taking the dear sweet face in both his big hands and
kissing the pouting' lips.

" There ! now that will do, Jacob dear ; I am going to ring the bell."

Allen returned.

"Have the ladies dined ?" asked Lucy.

" Yes, miss ; they dined with Mr. Thornton, who ordered the table
to be laid afresh for two, and kept till you returned, miss."

"Mr. Martyn, take me in to dinner," said Lucy, taking Jacob's arm,
to the disgust and astonishment of Allen, who made up his mind
there and then to follow Mr. Thornton to London with all despatch.

There never was such a delicious little dinner ; never were two diners
so happy; Jacob could hardly believe that he was not dreaming.
When dessert was served, and they were alone, Lucy said, " We must
talk about old times to convince me that the present is reality."

" Do you remember that last day at Cartown, when you made tea ?"
said Jacob.

" Ah ! yes, I do," Lucy replied, looking back at the picture which
• at once presented itself to her.

" And the clock that would hurry on, and that dear smell of tar
and the wood fire !"

" I have thought of it all thousands of times, dear ; and when you
were obliged to go at last, and I watched the lamp of the mail cart
until it shone like a star and then went out, dear, and left me almost
broken hearted"

Jacob drew his chair close to Lucy's, and his arm somehow strayed
to her waist and held her.

" Lucy, dear, we will go there as soon as we can — eh, love ? and
see the dear old place, the cottage, the wood, that little brook, and

io8 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

the apple tree under which you stood in those early days when I was
dying of love and dared not tell you."

" Yes, dear ; and do you remember the gipsy tent, and "

Jacob started.

"What is the matter, dear?"

" Nothing," said Jacob, " nothing ; I spent a night or two in the
encampment, when I went to the cottage and found you gone."

" Indeed," said Lucy ; " tell me of it, love ; when was it ?"

" In the winter ; it is not a pleasant memory; you shall hear the
story some other time ; at present let us only bask in the sunshine,
dear ; we have had enough of the frost and snow. There, now, you
must drink one more glass of this grand old wine ; and we will clink
our glasses as Bohemians do and toast Fortune."

" What would Allen say if he saw us ?" said Lucy, laughing. " I
fear we were never intended for Mayfair, Jacob."

" There ! I clink the glass at the top, then at the bottom, then
I say, « To Lucy.' "

" You said we should toast Fortune," replied Lucy, smiling.

" It is all the same, dear," said Jacob.

" Now I must leave you to your wine," said Lucy, rising, " and
prepare my companions for your presence in the drawing-room.
I have two wise ladies here who assist me in my studies, you know.
There, dear, will you have coffee here or in the drawing-room ?"

Lucy looked round at her lover with sparkling archness. Jacob's
only reply was to kiss the mouth that asked the tantalising question.

Coffee was speedily announced, and Jacob followed Allen to the
drawing-room, where he was duly introduced to Lucy's ladies, whom
he found very pleasant and agreeable. They played, and sang, and
talked of lords and ladies. By-and-by Lucy sat down to her harp
and sang the dear old hymn of the early days ; and, with the reader's
permission, we will leave Jacob drinking in words and music and all
their dear associations, and, when no one observed him, quietly wiping
away some tears of joy. His sudden happiness was almost too much
for him.

(To be continued.)

TABLE TALK.

BY SYLVANUS URBAN, GENTLEMAN.

From Italy, hard upon the news which told of the death ot
Mrs. Mary Somerville, comes to me from another lady of high
attainments and proud position in the world of letters, one of my
most esteemed correspondents, Mrs. Cowden Clarke, a sonnet
touchingly expressive of her veneration for her aged sister in
literature, and doubly touching now that the lady to whom the
lines were addressed six years ago is dead. Mrs. Clarke's sonnet,
she tells me, was laid by in 1866, and never reached the good and
gifted woman to whom it was addressed. Now, therefore, for the
first time, the exquisite lines see the light I am thankful for the
opportunity of printing them here as a tribute to the memory of the
dead and a welcome memento of the living : —

SONNET

ON RECEIVING A LOCK OF MRS. MARY SOMERVILLE's HAIR.

That head — which long among the stars hath dwelt

In thought sublime and speculation rare,

In scientific knowledge past compare,
In deep research and questions that have dealt
With Nature's laws to make them seen and felt —

That head now yields this tress of still dark hair,

At sight of which, besprent with argent fair,
Methought my touch'd imagination knelt

It looks as though, communing with the stars,
It had received some beams of silv'ry light,
Some reflex of Diana's crescent white,

Or steel-bright rays shorn from the crest of Mars.
A gift it is from one endowed with lore divine,
And proudly, gratefully, I treasure it as mine.

Mary Cowden Clarke.
Feb. 26th, 1866.

no The Gentleman s Magazine.

I have received a second edition of the Rev. Dr. Gerald Molly's
photographically-illustrated account of " The Passion Play at Ober-
Ammergau in the Summer of 187 1." The book is unique of its
kind. The story of the play is told with graphic force and power,
and the illustrations are characteristic memorials of the time. They
include photographs of the leading actors, together with several
incidents of the piece. The description of the theatre in the open
air, "shut in by a glorious amphitheatre of hills," calls to mind
Dickens's sketch from his window in "Pictures from Italy." Within
a stone's throw, as it seems, the audience of the day-theatre sit, their
faces turned this way. But as the stage is hidden, it is very odd,
without a knowledge of the cause, to see their faces changed so
suddenly from earnestness to laughter. At the close of his book,
Dr. Molly, after quoting sundry persons upon whom the Passion Play
made a deep and lasting impression, records his own feelings. He
went to Ober-Ammergau prejudiced against the Passion Play; he
remained to be " more sensibly impressed than ever he had been by
any sermon, however eloquent." Nevertheless, he is not an advocate
for a frequent repetition of the Play, nor for its extension beyond the
village which its representation has made famous. "The peculiar
combination of circumstances which, in the course of many genera-
tions, has brought it to its present perfection in this mountain
hamlet could not, I think, be found elsewhere in the world ; nor
could they long subsist even here without the protection which is
afforded by its rare occurrence."

The cruellest people in social life are those who are exacting in
the matter of personal beauty. Though professedly susceptible, they
are by nature hard-hearted and unimpressionable. „ They want
generosity; they are deficient in sympathy; they know nothing of
personal affinity and community of sentiment. To them facial
expression, and the colour that comes and goes in forehead and
cheek and lips, have no meaning but the meaning of artistic effect ;
and their glance, even when it is a glance of admiration, is devoid of
kindness and genuine feeling. Such people are incapable of the finer
arts of pleasing, and they derive but little pleasure themselves in their
social relations. Their fastidiousness amounts to partial blindness ;
their affectation of taste denotes a deficiency of sensibility. How
can he enjoy life who is hard to please by the qualities of face and
figure, of voice and expression and mode of speech of those among
whom he moves ? What would society be if there were in it no
charm for us but the charm of perfection ?

Table Talk. 1 1 1

Is it possible to account for the well known fact that the particular
trouble or misfortune with which a man happens to be struggling is
immeasurably magnified while he is half asleep or trying to sleep in
the night ? Everybody has had experience of this very trying form
of human misery. The sorrow of yesterday piles itself mountains
high while we are tossing upon a hot pillow. The obstacle that has
to be encountered to-morrow already triumphs over us. When the
question is fairly considered this is, perhaps, one of the most easily
explained of the phenomena of the dreaming and half-dreaming
state. Imperfect sleep is not, apparently, a condition equally distri-
buted over the faculties. Our mind is, in all probability, divided
into distinct sections, somewhat after the fashion in which the
phrenologists map out the skull, and some of these sections are in a
state of entire insensibility while others are partially active. So we
are conscious of our trouble, but not of the elements by which it may
be qualified. In the anxiety of the day hope has, perhaps, borne but
a very small share, and hope, therefore, takes its rest in the usual way
at night and plays no part in the disturbed working of the mind.
Hence the difficulty has to be encountered when the mind is in the
condition in which it would be in its waking time if the quality of
hope were wholly withheld. We must wait, however, for a great
advance in the science of psychology before we can set down a
precise theory of sleep and dreams.

An altogether new experience to most Englishmen would be a day
and night at Land's End when the windblows in winter. The finest
description of a hurricane ever written is that in " David Copperfield,"
in which the hero travels down to Yarmouth just before the shipwreck
of Steerforth ; but the invisible element rages under a different set of
conditions in West Cornwall There is a good, sturdy breadth of
land at the back of the east coast, but at Sennen there is nothing but
the mad ocean on three sides, and a strip of barren flat on the fourth.
So there the howling storm rushes over the bit of granite earth
unresisted, never losing force for an instant in its passage. In inland
England we are astonished when the wind is troublesome to fight
against. We can hardly believe the evidence of our senses if it stops
our locomotion. At Land's End there is no better recognised reality
than the uncompromising power of the wind. Everybody shuns it.
Nobody expects to come off" master in a conflict with it The natives
try to cheat it They make short catches of runs from post to dwarf-
wall during a momentary lull. They throw themselves down flat to
prevent being carried off" their feet. The wind tears their loose

ii2 The Gentleman s Magazine.

clothes off them, and whips them into shreds with their strings and
ribbons. If they lose guard or shelter when the gust comes it
dashes them against the first obstacle and bruises them. There is a
village population at Sennen, in the centre of the point of land,
who grow terribly serious when the winter is coming on. They
talk of their life as one of bitter hardship because of that awful
season. Strong, hale, and enduring as they are, they are not, in
their hearts, inured to these conditions of life. They are not, like
the Laplanders or the Greenlanders, part and parcel of the country
in which they live. The Cornishman is a thinking being, ready at
drawing comparisons of his lot with that of his fellow-countrymen
in better latitudes, and he tells the story of his misery with deplor-
able earnestness. His houses and huts are made chiefly of granite ;
but the wind, though it cannot tear them to pieces, has its revenge
upon them. It fills them with a roar and racket which deprives
home of all its peace and comfort The windows are nailed up in
winter to save them from being shaken to fragments. A plug is
jammed into every hole and cranny. Doors are fixed in order that
they may not be knocked out of their frames. Indeed, the one busi-
ness of winter is to hold on for dear life till the brief summer comes
again.

There is reason to believe that the talent for oral story-telling
diminishes with the extension of reading and the growth of literature.
Not the same necessity exists as of old for the preservation of the
details of a narrative in the memory, and there is a general tendency
in human nature to avoid a needless exercise of the faculties. Thus
it is that every year the men who can tell good stories grow fewer.

0

Some have a natural bent that way, but even they do not cultivate
the gift after the manner of those who went before them. They
perhaps have something of an advantage in naturalness, but they
lose a little in skill. It is not the practice now to preserve the exact
words and identical points of a narration. The incidents are not
repeated in precisely the same form. The story-tellers of a past gene-
ration knew their tales by heart, and recited them with all the exact-
ness with which the same actor would repeat, night after night, the
words, the accent, the emphasis, and the tone of a famous soliloquy.
It was reserved for a particular syllable, pronounced in a particular
manner, to send a shudder through the audience, to raise their
expectancy to the highest tension, or to call forth irresistible laughter.
By abundant testimony, aided in some measure by the recollections
of a generation now passing away, we know that these were "the '

Table Talk. 113

characteristics of the old story-tellers of social life, and by evidence
enough we are compelled to acknowledge that the race is dying out
Shall they be regretted ? Well, it is impossible to deny that there is
much to regret in things that are passing away ; it remains to be
considered what are the compensations.

It is a question whether it is possible for imagination to invent a
person bearing all the physical marks of personal identity. If the
novel writer were really able to accomplish this feat, he would afford
great satisfaction to ordinary mortals, by explaining the phenomena ;
and he would perform a still greater service if he would so place his
characters on paper as to enable the reader to see the imaginary per-
sonages with his mental eye. The intellectual and moral characters
of fictitious heroes and heroines are perceived clearly enough, but not
so clearly their minute physical peculiarities. The reader does not
fail to remember that the figure is tali or short, erect or bending,
with eyes, hair, and complexion, dark or light. But if in real life there
were only such items as these for sight to seize hold of, people would
not recognise their friends and acquaintances. If any one thinks
that in a work of imagination a person rises up whom the reader,
or even the writer, would recognise if. it were possible to meet him
in the flesh, let him consider what remarkably divergent presentments
artists have made of famous imaginary beings. There are as many
different Venuses, Niobes, Madonnas, and Helens as there are
original painters or sculptors. Some characters gain a personal
identity by means of a particular portrait, as in the case of Mr. Pickwick,
with jwhom the late Mr. Seymour made the world so well acquainted
that we should identify him in a crowd. But that was Mr. Seymour's
Pickwick, adopted gladly enough by Dickens. Does anybody fancy
that Seymour's Pickwick lived in the mental eye of the author of the
"Posthumous Papers" before the figure had ever been drawn on
paper by the pencil of the caricaturist ? That is a delusion. The
figure is a very happy conversion of an author's into an artist's
sketch— one of the happiest, perhaps, ever executed — but if we
owe the character to the writer, we owe the physical individuality to
the artist

The new year is to see the birth of an addition to the daily press of

London. For many years the Standard held the proud position of

the Conservative organ, unchallenged and without competition. The

rise and progress of the paper is in itself quite a romance of

journalism. The proprietor, Mr. Johnstone, deserves the highest
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. 1

ii4 The Gentleman s Magazine.

commendation for his enterprise and his zeal. For a long time he
fought an up-hill fight,, and he fought it well. Victory crowned his
efforts, as victory always crowns perseverance and courage. The
Standard now gives the proprietor a princely income. He can afford
to encounter opposition ; and, at the same time, the growing popu-
larity of moderate opinions and the gradual fading away of Mr.
Gladstone's majority seem to offer an opening for a new Constitutional
paper. Two gentlemen of considerable journalistic' capacity are
retiring from the Standard, and a north-country newspaper, which
seems to be well informed, says theyjare to be the head and front of
the new journal. The Conservative party rarely encourages its organs
in the press, much less does it support them ; but in the present
case, my northern friend says, one hundred and fifty thousand
Conservative sovereigns are ready to back this new enterprise. Some
noughts may be taken off these figures, I fancy. But there seems
no reason to doubt the coming paper, even if we sigh in vain for the
coming man. Various other enterprises are spoken of for the new
year, into the portals of which we are just stepping. I turn over
my new blotting pad, set out the new date, and wish them and my
readers all the success and prosperity which merit, courage, and true
ability are entitled to hope for and expect.

There are just now many indications of the growth of a higher
and purer taste in dramatic art than has latterly marked the history
of the stage. One of my contributors in the Gentleman's Annual
lias done full justice to the situation. In changes of all kinds mis-
takes will necessarily occur. The better days are discounted tpefore
Reform has done her work, and men incapable of forming a sound
judgment of things too often step forth to guide the times. The
management of the Queen's and the Holborn Theatres have shown
a desire to interpret the better taste of the day, and minister
to the higher hopes and desires of playgoers. -',-.. The one
has produced "Cromwell," the other "Lost and Found," both
by men of literary capacity ; but neither of them giving evidence
of dramatic genius. These two plays are the closing failures of the
year. The management of the two houses, and not the authors, are
responsible for this. Colonel Richards's play of " Cromwell " is a
fine dramatic poem, but quite unfit for the stage. If some of our
popular authors would only condescend to work side by side with
some of our best actors or most experienced stage managers, there
would be fewer bad plays and many more successful playwrights.

Table Talk. 115

" Every Englishman at heart," said Sir John Lubbock lately to his
constituents at Maidstone, " would rather fight out our quarrels, and
regards arbitration as a cold or even rather sneaking resolution of
international difficulties. I plead guilty to this feeling myself." The
confession strikes me as somewhat rash for a philosopher, and a little
hazardous, coming so soon after the lesson of the war of 1870, which
I thought at the time, watching closely the feelings of my fellow-
countrymen, led a great many people to think that war was a thing
that civilised nations might well begin to be ashamed of. In the
interests of philosophy, however, if not of peace, I am rather glad to
find this distinguished ethnologist acknowledging this particular
weakness ; for is he not in so much the better position to
probe the tendency to strife which remains within so many of us,
coming to us as it does from the blood of our forefathers, the savages
about whom Sir John Lubbock speculates so sagely ? Masters of
moral philosophy are sometimes at fault for lack of the weaknesses
within themselves which beset their fellow men. This is clearly not
Sir John Lubbock's case in so far as the barbarian instincts are
concerned.

LONDON
GRANT AND ro„ WUNTKRS, 72-7S, Tl':<VM!H nTRKPT, FX.

THE

Gentleman's Magazine

February, 1873.

Stranger than Fiction.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON," "THE

VALLEY OF POPPIES," &o.

CHAPTER XLV.

AN ACTOR'S HOLIDAY.

Jacob's departure for London was accelerated, and his route
thither somewhat changed, by a letter which he received at Neath-
ville from Paul Ferris, better known to my readers as Spenzonian
Whiffler. This letter had been re-directed from Dinsley by Mr. Wind-
gate Williams, who had traced upon the back of it some wonderful
flashes of wit and caligraphy for Jacob's edification.

Spen's letter was brief. It informed Jacob that the theatre being
closed for a short season he had taken a holiday, and was to be
heard of for three days only at the Blue Posts Hotel, Cartown, where
we find Jacob on the evening of the second day following his blissful
time with Lucy Thornton.

"You must be awfully tired," said Spen, emerging from the dingy
coffee-room of the "Posts," and shaking his old friend warmly by
both hands.

" I am, old boy. I have had a long journey, but the sight of your
good, kind face is as good as a glass of champagne."

" Waiter, send in the supper I ordered as soon as you can," said
Spen.

"All right, sir; the cook's attending to it"

"And now Jacob," said Spen, "sit down and tell us all about

yourself. By Jove, I have experienced the strangest heap of sensations

yesterday and to-day that ever afflicted mortal man. I've been in
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. k

1 1 8 The Gentlematis Magazine.

a perpetual whirl of excitement, anxiety, fear, happiness, depres-
sion, misery, and bliss.,,

"You have indeed been enjoying yourself," said Jacob, smiling.
-" How long has it taken to go through so much ?" /

■" Two days, my dear boy ; only two days. I seem to have lived
"half a century in that time. Apart from the immediate sensations of
the present, my mind has been wandering in the past I have been
tumbling and somersault throwing, in imagination, down Spawling's
garden ; mixing Indian ink at the pump, thrashing that big fellow
from the country with the greasy dinner-bag; dodging Dorothy
^upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber; doing mock
•heroics among autumn leaves between here and a famous cottage at
Cartown; wondering all sorts of things about you and Lucy; and,
above all, falling desperately in love myself, and ready and willing at
this moment to go through the last act with real properties. But
it is like me. I ask you to tell me all about yourself, and proceed
at once to give you my own history. When you know all, you
will forgive my wretched egotism, and laugh at my miscellaneous
sensations. But we are all strange creatures of impulse, and there
.does seem such a magic in this old town of our boyhood, that I must '
t>e forgiven if I am not quite myself here."

Spen thrust his hands deep down into his pockets, then removed
•them, stood up, sat down, looked at the ceiling, warmed himself
at an imaginary fire (which summer had covered up with paper,
shavings), patted Jacob on the back, and called him a "dear old
boy," and exhibited many other signs of the excitement of which
lie had spoken.

Supper was brought in while the two young fellows conversed, but
it did little to interrupt their animated intercourse. Whenever an
opportunity occurred Jacob told Spen of his troubles and triumphs, and
Spen threw in at every opportunity snatches of his own experiences,
which in their way were strange and interesting, but neither so varied
*ior so romantic as Jacob's. Spen had been hard at theatrical work
for years. His stories were of patient study at home, drudgery at
rehearsals, and hard work before the footlights; leading gradually
up to that brilliant success of which we have previously heard. He
told Jacob that there was much less of sentiment and Tomance in a
theatrical career than the public understood. Success demanded
very much more drudgery and labour than was generally imagined.
Details of dress, of manner, studies of look, gesture, walk, pose, and a
variety of apparently small things made up the grand whole of an
.actor's art. But Spen was not willing, evidently, to say much

Stranger than Fiction. 119

about his theatrical career. His talk was chiefly of the past, of their
first meeting, and of the early days of Cartown school. But the
more exciting portions of his talk were associated with a young
lady whom he called a divine creature, a glorious girl, a superb
woman, and other endearing and descriptive names — a young lady
whom he had seen come out of the old school-house on the previous
day with two little girls and a boy ; the most gentle, gracious, fasci-
nating little witch he had ever seen in all his career, professionally
and non-professionally. He had followed her over a well-known
path, and in fun had helped the children to gather wild flowers.

" Only in fun, my dear boy, so far as they were, concerned, but
in desperate earnest on my own part! What fools we are! Here
was I, years ago, in a rural paradise, with real flowers and brooks
and woods, real valleys, real autumn tints and summer breezes,
sighing for gaslight and paint, canvas meadows, mock thunder, and a
hollow fame. It seemed to me yesterday as if I would give the
world to live out the remainder of my life among the old real scenes;
but the desire, I must confess, was immensely promoted by the hope
of a fairy partnership with Titania, my fairy queen of yesterday.
You will say I have become a romantic fellow in my years of
discretion. I suppose I have been so long mewed up among London
bricks and mortar that the country takes my reason prisoner."

Jacob was more astonished now at the change which had taken
place in Spen than he had been while conversing with his old friend
in London. Although the merriman of the Cartown school had lost
none of his animal spirits, yet the real fun and frolic of the old days
were wanting. Nobody would certainly have taken him for the
funny man of a theatrical company. His face, it is true, had that
peculiar, sallow, closely-shaven look which characterises the profession
generally; but there were strong lines in it which one would be more
likely to associate with tragedy than comedy, except when the face
was lighted up by some quaint conceit, and then there was something
essentially humorous in its peculiar, dry expression.

" Now, Spen, let us talk seriously. Drop this fictitious kind of
personal confession. Let us get out of romance. Have you really
ever thought of marrying?

" Yes, indeed, I have," said Spen, with a grave twinkle of the eye.
" I thought of it for the first time yesterday, and I have thought
about nothing else until your arrival this evening."

" Ah ! You will have your joke," said Jacob, laughing. " Earnest
conjugal ambition is not so sudden as that"

11 Honour bright," said Spen, " I am in real earnest, and you shall

x 2

1 20 The Gentleman* s Magazine.

see the lady of my choice in the morning. I could not endure the
general notions of courtship and matrimony. If I take a fancy to
anything I must have it at once. There is no hesitation about my
character. You shall see, and I never yet made a mistake in reading
the face of man or woman."

The night soon came to these long-severed friends, and early in
the morning they were out among the old haunts, fraught to them
with so many happy and peculiar associations. Passing through the
churchyard Jacob noticed a simple granite column marking the spot
where Spen had told him in the old days that the dead clown's ghost
had rebuked him for his ingratitude. At the base the grass had grown
up, making a pretty natural fringe of green beneath the simple word,
" Petroski."

A bee dangling in the bell of a kingcup close by made a drowsy
hum, which added to the softening influence and repose of the scene.
" Ah ! you have a noble heart/' said Jacob, turning upon Spen
affectionately. " How long has this monument been here ?"

" Well," said Spen, " two or three years, I suppose. Poor dear
old Pet. I should have liked Hamlet's words about Yorick under-
neath the dear boy's name, but the churchwardens objected. They
did not like quotations from Shakespeare on gravestones, they said;
it was contrary to their rule. Perhaps it is better as it is. Poor
Petroski !"

Jacob's heart smote him bitterly when he remembered that there
was one far dearer to him than Petroski was to Spen, who might at
that moment be lying beneath the sod unrecorded on the stone above
for aught he knew.

When first he left Middleton, cursing the place and his own
wretched destiny, he thought he would come quietiy back at
intervals and lay a flower upon that grave which had closed over
all the blood-relationship which seemed to exist for him in this
world; but time wore on, and he was content to sit down
now and then with his memories and to pay his tribute of flowers in
imagination. But his heart rebuked him now at sight of the tall
column pointing upwards from the grave of Petroski.

" You are sad, my boy," said Spen. " You remind me of that time
in the autumn when I told you I would make a hit on the stage.
Come, we must have no clouds in the sunshine of this day. See,
yonder is the old school; the bell is already ringing, the boys are
slinking through the dear old doorway with their long-eared books and
their greasy dinner-bags. Ah ! they are a different lot to those
whom we knew. The boots at the "Posts" tells me that the boys get

Stranger than Fiction. 121

different treatment to that which we received at the hands of Spawling,
and those lads yonder seem to have had all the sprightliness of life
whipped out of them."

They stood for some time gazing at the well-known school-house.
Presently they went behind the building to reconnoitre. They hid
themselves in the garden to watch the schoolmaster go forth to his
duties. They had hardly sheltered themselves when a scantily clothed
child knocked at the door, which was opened by an elderly woman
with stiff grey curls hanging down each cheek and clustering about a
pair of spectacles that were supported by a thin bony nose, slightly
red at the extremity.

"Good heavens !" exclaimed Jacob, clutching Spen's arm.

"What is the matter?" asked Spen in a whisper.

" Matter?" exclaimed Jacob, " by all that's miserable, it is my Aunt
Keziah."

"The devil!" said Spen.

" No, not exactly that, but certainly Mrs. Gompson."

"Mon dim! The old griffin you used to tell me of. Well,
keep quiet"

" Buy a few pegs or laces !" exclaimed Mrs. Gompson, surveying the
half naked urchin from uncovered head to naked feet ; " certainly not.
Nothing of the kind."

"They're very cheap, mum."

* Cheap ! Where do you live, child ?"

" Down the lane, please mum."

" Down the lane, eh ! Gipsy child — I thought so. Gipsy child,
listen to me. Are you not ashamed to go about imposing on people
in this way, endeavouring to injure the honest tradesman who pays
rent and taxes by underselling him in the matter of pegs and laces
and other merchandise?"

" Please, mum, I didn't mean to do it," said the little child, look-
ing up out of a pair of black, sympathetic eyes.

" Oh ! you didn't mean to do it. We shall see. Why does not
your mother dress you before she sends you out? I declare it's
perfectly shocking !" said Mrs. Gompson, surveying the well-shapen, .
naked legs which stood firmly and with a natural grace upon the
doorstep.

" Please, mum, I haven't no mother."

" Oh ! you haven't no mother ! Why, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself. How dare you go about the streets and lanes without any
mother? And pray, have you no father?"

" No, mum."

122 The Gentleman s Magazine.

"Ah ! well, you're none the worse off for that; and you can't help
having no mother. I dare say you'll try to make out that you have
been a stolen child, to excite sympathy, and impose upon the bene-
volent and tender-hearted, eh? — the charitable and philanthropic
people who endow beggary and roguery. Do you know what philan-
thropy is ?"

" No, mum ; please, mum."

" Ah ! I dare say you don't even know your alphabet. I dare say
you think it's something to eat"

"I don't know, mum, please; but will you buy — some —
pegs ?"

" No, child, certainly not. Miss Winthorpe — Edith, I say !" shouted
Mrs. Gompson, turning her head into the house ; whereupon Jacob
gave further signs of excitement and agitation, such as had almost
attracted the griffin eyes of Aunt Keziah to the gooseberry bushes.

" What's the matter now ?" asked Spen, in a whisper.

" Never mind," said Jacob, in reply. " Fate is only having a lark
with us, as Windgate Williams would say. Let the magician go on : —
let the play be played out."

"All right," whispered Spen. "Miss Winthorpe has her cue;
don't interrupt her."

A young lady in a light morning dress came to the door.

" Edith, by all that's good and beautiful !" said Jacob.

" My angel ! my angel !" said Spen. " My Titania ! The lady I
told thee of."

"Do keep quiet, Spen," said Jacob; "we shall be discovered."

"You make more noise than I do," replied Spen; "keep quiet
yourself; you are almost shaking the leaves off that tree."

" Mary, Mary," exclaimed Mrs. Gompson, looking straight in die
direction of Jacob. "Those cats are among the gooseberry bushes
again. Go and drive them away, every berry will be shaken off;
we shall not have gooseberries to make a tart of, much more for
preserving."

" Now you have done it," whispered Spen ; " here's a go. I will
frighten her into fits if she comes."

Spen pushed back his hat, lifted up his collar, dropped his jaw, and
struck a most strange and idiotic attitude, which convulsed Jacob
with silent laughter. The change was as rapid as it was grotesque.
The face was quite a psychological triumph. Jacob was at once
carried back to his early meeting with Spen. He laughed several
big berries to the ground in spite of all his efforts to control himself.
Fortunately, however, Mary was making bread, and it was not

Stranger than Fiction. 12 j

convenient for her toleave the dough in which she was plunged up to
her elbows. The comedy was therefore not so abruptly, closed as the
two friends in the garden had feared it might be.

"Miss Winthorpe, " said Mrs. Gompson, "bring Miss Grace
Wilmott and Masters Barnby and Trundleton here."

At Edith's bidding three children under ten came to the door.

" Now, Miss Wilmott and Masters Barnby and Trundleton," said
Mrs. Gompson, surveying them with pride and authority, "I wish
you to teach each other a little lesson. Little gipsy girl"

" Yes, mum."

" Do you see this nice happy well-dressed young lady and young
gendemen?"

"Yes, mum."

" This happiness and luxury is the fruit not only of good breeding,
but of good citizenship and education. Bear that in mind, will you?"

" Yes, mum," said the little hawker, beginning to cry.

" I thought that would affect your hardened little heart Now
Miss Grace Wilmott and Masters Barnby and Trundleton, you see
this ragged, dirty little child?"

" Yes, ma'am," said the three in a falsetto chorus.

" That matted hair is the result of bad citizenship, loose habits,
non-attendance at church, the want of knowing a-b, ab, and c-o-w,
cow, and other rudiments of learning, which lead up to an acquaint-
ance with the abstruse sciences. Will you remember that?"

" Yes, Mrs. Gompson," said the chorus again.

" Very well, that is what I call a practical lesson of life, a true
system of teaching social economy and the rights and advantages of
good citizenship. Gipsy girl, here is a penny for you. You may
go and never come here again."

" Yes, mum ;" and the child, with her eyes bent on the ground,
went meekly one way, while Mrs. Gompson marched pompously in
another direction leading to the school, satisfied that she had done
her duty and at the same time been guilty of a little womanly weak-
ness is supporting* vagrancy with her purse.

The griffin had hardly turned away before Edith shut the door
hurriedly and Spen darted off after the little black-eyed hawker.
Jacob thought it best to remain where he was, and hold a council of
war with himself.

In a few moments Spen, however, beckoned him with both hands.
Jacob hastened to his friend.

"Such an adventure!" exclaimed Spen, his sallow face glowing,
with animation.

1 24 The Gentlematis Magazine.

*

"Well, well, what is it?"

" I had just caught the poor little beggar at the same time that
Titania swooped down upon her.

"Who? who?"

" Titania — Flora — Dorcas — Hebe — Miranda — heaven knows what
her proper name is — Edith you call her. She had hurried out of the
front door to give the child money, and, by the Lord ! I've kissed her.
Now, it is no good frowning on a fellow ; I couldn't help it. She's
my fate, and, by Jupiter ! she shall go back to London with me !"

When Spen's boisterous declarations were somewhat subdued,
Jacob told him all he knew of Edith, and ventured to predict
that she had been induced to leave home and take a situation as
teacher owing to the unkind treatment and jealousy of her sisters.

" And what do you propose to do ? " said Spen, his eyes full of
astonishment and wonder.

" To take you into the dear old house, my boy, and, if you are
willing, introduce you formally to your fate."

"Willing!" exclaimed Spen with theatrical action and fervour.
" Away, away ! my soul's in arms, and eager for the fray."

CHAPTER XLVI.

HOW JACOB PERFORMED A DELICATE NEGOTIATION ON BEHALF OF MR.
PAUL FERRIS, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INTERESTING INFORMATION.

" On second thoughts, Spen, you had better let me see the lady
alone," said Jacob, when the two were on the threshold of the well-
known front door.

" My own thought, with a but," said Spen.

" Well, what is the but ? Go on, nwn ami"

"Perhaps it is only 'much ado about nothing ;' but you will
remember Claudio's lines : —

Friendship is constant in all other things

Save in the office and affairs of love ;

Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues ;

Let every eye negotiate for itself,

And trust no agent : for beauty is a witch,

Against whose charms faith melteth into blood."

" Is it come to this, i' faith ?" said Jacob, smiling.

"It was the flat transgression of the schoolboy, that being
overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, he showed it to his companion,
who stole it"

Stranger than Fiction. 125

" Fie ! fie ! Benedict's philosophy does not apply here. Edith is
not in mine eye ' the sweetest lady that e'er I look'd upon ;' she has
only a second place."

" There thou strikest home. But art thou quite sure that all is
settled between thee and thy woodland Venus ?"

" What ! Lucy ?" said Jacob, laughing at the grotesque leer with
which Spen asked the question.

" The same."

" Have no fear, Spen — Edith shall be yours, if you are in earnest."

" Raise then the fatal knocker, at once. When your embassy is
over you'll find me at the Blue Posts, a fortifying of myself for
Coopid's answer ;" and away went Spen Whiffler of old, cutting capers
across the road, to the intense delight of two small boys, a slipshod
girl, and a draper's assistant. The last had been to the big house,
hard by, with a bundle of ribbons. He had nothing else left to do
but to stare at Spen. Vainly endeavouring to support himself,
in an immoderate fit of laughter, on a treacherous yard-measure, the
frail rod broke and sent the grinning youth sprawling upon his
paper box, before the actor could be said to have pulled a single face
at him.

Jacob was admitted to the old schoolroom by a girl with patches
of dough clinging to a pair of ruddy arms, which she partly shielded
with a white apron.

She didna knaw whether Miss Winthorpe would see him or not.
What name wor it ? Martyn of Dinsley ? Well, she'd go and tell her.
He moit sit down a bit

Jacob sat down, and, happily, before he had made himself very
melancholy with the remembrances of the time when he sat in that
same room with his father, on the occasion of the memorable visit to
Bonsall, Miss Edith Winthorpe entered. She came forward and
bowed very politely to Jacob, and said quite naturally that she was
very glad to see him.

" Perhaps I should apologise for calling without an introduction,"
said Jacob, a little at a loss to explain his business.

" I hope it is not necessary for people belonging to the same town
to apologise for knowing each other in a strange place."

" Thank you, Miss Winthorpe. I like your frankness ; but this is
more than a mere visit of courtesy : I have called upon rather a deli-
cate business," said Jacob.

" Indeed," said Edith, losing her self-possession for a moment.

" Oh ! oh !" said the doughy domestic, who had been listening at
the key-hole.

126 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

Edith has since confessed that she expected a declaration
of love from Jacob, and that she was quite prepared to receive it
kindly.

" Then in the first place, Miss Winthorpe, I beg to tender to you
the most abject apologies of a friend of mine whose love rather outran
his discretion this morning. "

" Indeed !" said Edith again, and this time in a little confusion,
rendered more apparent by a sudden doubt as to fee motives of
Jacob's visit.

" He is a gentieman, a man of taste and feeling, of noble and
generous impulses. I have known him for years ; and he has seen
you."

Edith blushed and began to twist her handkerchief round her
fingers.

" To be plain with you, Miss Winthorpe, he wishes to be intro-
duced to you, and if you can like him, he is ready to marry you '
whenever you will name the day. There \"

" There ! Yes, I think you may say, ' There/ A nice piece of
business to come upon and to propound before one has spoken half
a dozen words to you, Mr. Martyn," said Edith, rising and opening
the door, to the consternation of the domestic, who was so deeply
interested in the conversation that she stood gaping at Edith, with
only a vague idea that she had been caught in the act

" I thought I heard you, Mary," said Edith, calmly; "perhaps you
will step inside and take a seat ?"

Mary sneaked away and plunged her arms once more into the
dough, which she beat and buffeted and rolled about in the most
savage manner ; sad illustrations of her wrath being exhibited the
next morning 'in the flat hard cakes that were placed on Mrs.
Gompson's breakfast-table.

Edith was not much disconcerted at this amusing incident ;
indeed, she laughed heartily when she had closed the door upon
Mary, and turning to Jacob said: "Well, what is this gentleman
like ? Is he handsome ? Has he money ? You see I am quite a
woman of the world I have left home to seek my fortune ; and I
must be my own mamma and solicitor in this matter. "

And then she laughed again, at which Jacob was not pleased.

" But I think, perhaps, it would be best for me to send for Mrs.
Gompson and take her advice/' she said, in a graver mood.

" No ! no ! for goodness sake don't do that," said Jacob.

"But is this proper, Mr. Martyn, to call upon a young lady
when "

Stranger than Fiction. 127

" Mrs. Gompson is my aunt," said Jacob.

" Oh ! now you are joking. "

" On my honour," said Jacob " I will answer to her for your
conduct"

Then Jacob begged Edith to listen calmly to all he would tell
her ; whereupon, in a very business-like manner, he described his
own position and prospects, spoke of his great esteem for her, and
his knowledge of her history ; and then entered fully into his early
friendship with Mr. Paul Ferris, and related succinctly all he knew
about his friend.

When Jacob talked of Spen's confession, Edith's attention became
particularly earnest ; her bright eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he
related the story of Spen's gradual success. She clasped her hands
with delight when Jacob described his recognition of his old friend
on that brilliant night in the London theatre. Seeing how deeply
the story interested her, Jacob dwelt longer upon this theme than he
would otherwise have done.

" But — but I felt very much insulted, sir, this morning," said
Edith, checking her evident interest in Mr. Ferries history.

" He bitterly repents him of his conduct; only pleading in extenua-
tion your beauty and his love for you."

Finally, Edith granted Jacob permission to introduce Mr. Ferris to-
herself and Mrs. Gompson : not that there was any necessity that the
advice of the latter should be obtained ; for Mrs. Gompson, besides
having no control over Edith (who had only been in Cartown a few
days), had neither the love nor esteem of her teacher ; and Mrs.
Winthorpe was a poor weak woman in the hands of two hard-hearted,
stiff-necked daughters, who would gladly have encompassed their
pretty sister's ruin, who had indeed forced her from home, their cruelty
almost surpassing that of Cinderella's wicked persecutors.

So, like many another girl, Edith was thrown upon her own resources.
She had obtained her present situation through an advertisement, and
it was quite open for her now to use her own judgment and feelings
entirely in the matter of the suit of Mr. Ferris, whose delicate atten-
tion in gathering flowers for the children had not escaped her notice.
His profession, which would have been the greatest barrier to many
young ladies, was to Edith one of his strongest recommendations. A
girl of spirit, a good musician, possessing a fine voice and an artistic
taste, delighting in operatic music, and with a memory filled with her
father's stories of theatrical life when he was leader of a London
orchestra, Edith would gladly have chosen the stage for her own
profession had she known how to begin ; but to mention a theatre at

128 The Gentlematis Magazine.

home was to incur the penalty of a lecture from two bad sisters and
a weak silly mother, and all sorts of penances besides. Moreover,
there was something in Mr. Ferris's manner and appearance which
Edith liked ; and Jacob's plea in his favour was so eloquent, Jacob's
announcement of his own forthcoming marriage so decisive, and the
certainty of being relieved from a life of drudgery so attractive, that
Edith, weighing all things carefully, and putting into the scale a little
liking for the man, and much hope that true love would follow, made
up her mind to receive Mr. Paul Ferris very graciously.

Inquiries at the inn and elsewhere led to the information that Mr.
Spawling had been succeeded as schoolmaster by Mr. Gompson,
from London ; who, after a little time, had been joined by his wife,
when the Martyn establishment at Middleton was broken up. The
town had been a good deal scandalised at the domestic brawls of
this uncongenial couple, and had not Mr. Gompson given up the
ghost, and retired from the business altogether, the school committee
'would have discharged him. On his decease, Mrs. Gompson (who
had shown great masculine power in dealing with the boys during
her husband's illness, and whose mode of instruction seemed to be
more successful than his) was appointed head of the school, and she
had retained her position ever since.

"She's gotten a rum way with th' lads, sir," said the rural waiter;
" when she's goin' to lick one on 'em she pitches th' cane from one
end of the room to the other, and makes him fetch it : when he's
fetched it she leathers into him like all that."

" And how do the school committee get along with her ?"

" Oh, she's master of them too ; they're all afraid on her ; but she's
not a bad schoolmissis, so fur as learning goes, I've heard say. She's
up to all the new dodges of spelling, and writing, and 'rithmetics, and
all that."

"All is right," said Jacob, dashing into the dingy coffee-room;
" I have wooed her for you far more earnestly than Viola, in trousers,
wooed the Countess."

" But how have you succeeded? If only after the Viola fashion,
then farewell the tranquil mind," said Spen, half theatrically, half
seriously.

" Go to — I have unclasped to thee the Book of Fate — thou ma/st
love her if thou wilt ; an' thou wilt not, thou'lt lose a wench of rare
mettle —

Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart."

Stranger than Fiction. 1 29

" Methinks we are a fair and proper match, Jacob ; I am several
years her senior. We'll speak with the maid ourself, good Jacob ;"
and Spen strode right royally to the fireplace, and rang the bell.

" Waiter, a bottle of the best — the wine I spoke of," said Spen, to.
the clown who answered his ringing; "and now, Jacob, without
further fooling, let us discuss this matter. What did she say ? How
did she look ?"

Jacob related as nearly as possible all that had taken place ; and
the two agreed to wait upon the griffin and the fairy after dinner.

Meanwhile Jacob sat down to write letters, and Spen lit a cigar, in
the smoke of which he tried to read his destiny. In his own
eccentric way he loved Edith ; she was the first sunny thing he saw
on revisiting the haunts of his youth, and it seemed to him that the
charms of the old place were all personified in her. It may appear
strange to some pf my readers that this comic gentleman who painted
his face and made people laugh, and whose pathos in real life was
often almost like burlesque, should be so love-stricken at the first
sight of a mere country girl. But Edith Winthorpe was no ordinary
person ; we have seen how much she interested Jacob, and we must
not forget that actors are only mortal after all, with hearts and minds
as susceptible as those of other people, and with often a genuine
romance in their very natures, which may lift some of them to a
loftier and more devoted height of love and friendship than many
who follow professions outside the pale of art could hope to attain.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

Some months after the events recorded in the last few chapters
Jacob Martyn was taking authorship in a very comfortable fashion.
The library of Mr. Bonsall, which had appeared to him so magnifi-
cently cozy, was not more of a book-paradise than the one in which
he was engaged upon his " Romantic History of the Welsh," at
Neathville, nor so much indeed ; for in Jacob's study there was a
presiding angel who sat near him and called him husband. What
were Jacob's troubles and trials now that his bark, as Mr. Windgate
Williams would put it, had sailed gloriously into the harbour of Fame,
Fortune, and Matrimony? I really do not know whether Jacob
deserved so much honour and happiness. The critics, it was true,
said that his " On the Track of a Sunbeam " was one of the most
charming works of imaginative genius since "The Tempest" and
" Undine." His wife thought there was nothing equal to it in literature.

1 30 The Gentleman's Magazine.

The Dinsley Courant went into absurdly extravagant ecstacies
about it, the reviewer closing three columns of pompous eulogy by
stating that " the editor of this journal could not conclude these few
remarks, which fell so far short of the subject, without expressing in
some manner the inconceivable delight which he felt in being able to
inform his readers that Jacob Martyn, who had stamped such an
indelible mark on the roll of Fame, had made his first serious effort
at composition in the columns of the Courant, which might in reality
be regarded as the cradle in which the mighty genius had been
rocked ; and, to follow up the simile, he (the editor) might humbly
take credit for being the literary nurse who had rocked it.M

Jacob's visit to London, though it had led to the speedy marriage
of die lovers, had not been quite satisfactory to Lucy's -uncle, who
not only wished to stipulate that Jacob should change his name, but
also that he should undertake to contest any vacant seat in Parlia-
ment which he (Mr. Thornton) might select The old man was very
grand about his ancestors, and the necessity for Jacob being some-
thing more than an author ; and, moreover, with all due deference to
Jacob's abilities, he thought that if a man was an author at all he
should have a higher aim than that of being a mere writer of fairy
tales, which were only fit for women and children. He had not
much respect for scribblers, he said, at any time, and he could only
tolerate historians, and wits of fashion.

Jacob would not consent to either of the suggested arrangements,
whereupon Mr. Thornton bade a long farewell to the perpetuation of
Thoratonian greatness, and determined upon relinquishing all the
schemes of ambition which the discovery of Lucy had for a time
aroused in his mind, and finishing his existence in that quiet, jog-trot
fashion which had been interrupted by the arrival of that never-to-be-
forgotten letter from his brother's son, the soldier.

The change which had taken place in Mr. Thornton's plans, and a
violent row between master and man (arising out of Mr. Allen's alleged
officiousness in the matter of the love-letters, which had done so much
mischief), blighted the hopes of the confidential servant. Mr. Allen's
long cherished idea of marrying Lady Frumpington's housekeeper,
when his master should have a companion in an aristocratic son-in-
law, was knocked on the head, as he told that charming damseL
With a limp though agitated shirt frill, he bemoaned his unhappy lot;
and the base creature whom he had so long adored eloped the next
day with the French cook of a bishop, which circumstance so affected
Mr. Allen that he went into a violent fit of coughing and perspira-
tion, and was, he believed ever afterwards, a miserable valet.

Stranger than Fiction. 131

On the completion of the Welsh book, and the receipt of a cheque
for nearly double the amount expected for the work, Lucy and Jacob
paid a visit to Mr. Paul Ferris. Edith and Spen were a very happy
couple, and had received such warm invitations to visit the Grove,
that they had arranged for a triumphant tour, " some Passion-week, "
to Dinsley ; where Edith fully intended to show Paul off before her
envious friends, and duly patronise her fawning sisters, who wrote to
her in terms of the most glowing affection immediately after reading
in the Courant that " the eminent and distinguished comedian, Paul
Ferris, Esq., had just led to the hymeneal altar Miss Edith Win-
thorpe, the lovely and accomplished daughter of Mrs. Winthorpe,
of the Grove, in this town." They had treated her cards with con-
tempt, but unable to resist this paragraph, and the visions of a house
in London, and long sisterly visits thither, had poured out the latent
tenderness of their virgin hearts upon Mrs. Ferris, in gushing floods
of ink, on shining leaves of scented note-paper, sealed with the
motto, "Though absent, ever dear."

Do you remember that sweet face in the old room at the
Cartown school ? The deep blue eyes and the raven hair of her who
was painted as Rosalind ? Jacob has not forgotten it ; neither has
Spen. In his early life Mr. Dudley was intended for the bar ; but
he had seen this young sparkling beauty and loved her. She became
everything to him : his world, his existence. He gave up his
profession, and devoted himself to the stage. He studied under
a great master, and soon gave evidence of dramatic genius. He
appeared at Old Drury, playing Romeo to his idol's Juliet. He felt
in truth all the poetry set down in the text ; and afterwards, at her
own home, he told the lady of his love. As time went on they became
the rage. Dudley's Romeo, and Amy Clifton's Juliet ; his Orlando
and her Rosalind ; his Prospero and her Miranda, were marvels of
fine acting. Then it became known that they were to be married,
and little allusions to matrimony which cropped up in the text were
caught at and applauded to the echo. The theatrical world fairly
. loved them both ; and the beautiful Amy Clifton became more and
more lovely. But she was not worthy of the large-hearted actor.
Hefs was but a painted passion. One unhappy night, when the
notorious Lord Menzwith was in the fulness of his glory, she fell away
from her allegiance and deserted her lover. The dazzling professions
of the brilliant nobleman overcame her and she fled with him.

With her mysterious disappearance from the stage the public heard
of the dangerous illness of Mr. Liston Dudley. He was in a fever
for weeks ; when he recovered he was a broken-down man.

132 The Gentlematis Magazine.

There is no human being that is all bad. There are corners in
the blackest hearts where some little goodness still remains to prove
the divinity of their Maker. Amy Clifton was not all bad ; her lord
lover soon showed himself to her in his true colours ; she heard of
the break-up of poor Liston Dudley; and one dreary night in winter,
an outcast and a wanderer, she found out his quiet retreat, and,
imploring forgiveness, died in his arms, of want, neglect, and
remorse.

His love for this woman was poor old Dudley's big sorrow ; and
once a year, as I ha\p said, he gave himself up to it wholly ; but his
memory was always with the bright, sunny, dazzling girl who had
played Juliet to his Romeo in the days of his youth.

Silly old man ! some of my readers may say. Perhaps he was,
perhaps not. It is not for us to judge him. There is no knowing
what you and I may come to, my friend. Fate has all to do with it,
Dr. Horatio Johnson says ; and you may rely upon it he is not far
wrong. I have just returned from a long journey. At starting, a
young woman took a seat in a wrong train. The guard speedily put
her right. If we could all of us only be put right when we begin our
long journeyon life's railway ! If Fate, who may be taken as the
guard, wouldjonly tell us when we stepped into the wrong train.
That young woman I spoke of would have gone to London
instead of Birmingham, if the Great Western guard had not
interfered. If Fate had only told Liston Dudley that he
was in the wrong train when he took his seat for the theatre on
that night of Amy'Clifton's benefit ! But you see, Fate did nothing
of the sort, Mr. Williams would say ; therefore it was his fate to go
wrong. And]the'guard knew it when he opened the first-class door
to Lord Menzwith.

We leave Mr. Liston Dudley, however, soothed and consoled in
the companyjof those who love him, and in whose happiness his
unselfish and noble nature finds its sweetest delight in these latter
days.

A pilgrimage which the happy bride and bridegroom made to
Cartown and the house among the trees, a few months later, revealed
a pathetic episode in the married life of Will Tunster and our old
friend Dorothy.

It was evening when Jacob and Lucy, after a series of short
journeys, reached Cartown ; but the sun was only just beginning to
show golden signs of his departure to other lands ; so they deter-
mined to see Mr. and Mrs. Tunster that night Full of the past,

Stranger than Fiction. 133

they determined to walk the old walk together, and to order a
conveyance to be in waiting for them, on their return, in the lane
near the site of the old gipsy encampment. Lucy hung fondly upon
Jacob's arm, and when they reached the bridge over the Cartown
river he* paused to tell her how he had once stood there years before,
when winter had stilled the river and covered it with ice ; and then,
while the birds sang their evening songs around them, and bees
and beetles buzzed a drowsy chorus, he told her of his journey in
the snow and the footprints which were not hers. Tears of sorrow
and joy stole gently down Lucy's cheeks at the recital ; she looked
through them, up into her husband's face, and asked him if the ice
was really thawed at last, and the sunshine come. Jacob's reply was
not in words ; he drew Lucy closer to his side and they wandered
down the- deep green lane, eloquent in their loving silence.

Highway, lane, and fields were soon left behind; and so also
was the well-known stile that led to the wood, which seemed to
stretch out its umbrageous arms affectionately over the children who
had. returned to its bosom. The rill, which had so often sung songs
of joy and hope to the lovers in the long-past days, whispered and
murmured over the old mosses and pebbles ; glided by the same
knotted roots ; chattered over the same stones ; and lost itself in the
same leafy valley. What happiness to feel that there was no rebuke
in the constancy of that familiar rivulet !

They found Will Tunster hale and hearty, sitting on a bench in
the garden, amusing himself with his time-honoured bugle, breathing
through its old crooks the air which had once been so familiar to
Lucy and Jacob in the days of the Middleton mail. Dorothy, in a
white cap and apron, with a shawl pinned over her shoulders, sat
sewing close by. An old shepherd's dog (the sight of which gave
Jacob a pang of memory concerning Caesar, who died on board ship
soon after Mrs. Titsy's marriage) lay asleep at the threshold of the
house; a great white cat sat lazily watching a blackbird, that was
pouring forth a series of full round notes in an adjacent copse ; and
a kitten was playing with a reel of cotton which had fallen from Mrs.
Tunster^ knee.

The meeting was a sad yet a happy one. After the first surprise
and the greeting on both sides were over, and Will had gone out to
procure fresh cream for tea, Lucy rallied Mrs. Tunster about her old
love-making and endeavoured to elicit from her some particulars of
her marriage.

" Ah, my love," said Dorothy, sadly, " it's a long tale and getting

rather foggy at my time of life."

Vol. X. N.S., 1873. L

1 34 The Gcnilematis Magazine.

9

" Your time of life, my dear Dorothy!" said Lucy, as two fine rosy,
curly-headed fellows, bearing unmistakable evidence of their paternity,
romped in, and then shrank back, abashed at their own impudence,
to run off laughing down the garden.

"Ah," said Dorothy, not heeding the children, " I mayn't be so
very old, but I seem to be. Well, I thank God I've helped to make
somebody happy. To think of you two coming, man and wife,
gentleman and lady, to see me again before I am laid, with my poor
old mother, in the churchyard yonder !"

" Don't talk in that way," said Lucy, rising and tenderly embracing
her foster-sister.

"Well, I ought not, perhaps," said Dorothy; "but we get soberer
as we get older. We may say the same things as we've said when
we were young, but we say them solemner like. There's Will, he
plays the same tunes he used to play when I was a little wench, but
there's not so much life in them now — their sound is more feel-
ing, as if they had had troubles like us, and had got quieter and
solemner than they used to be. Poor Will ! he has been a good
husband to me and a good father to his children."

It required a second and a third visit to the Tunsters ere Lucy
and Jacob learnt all about the shadow which had fallen upon the
dear old home among the trees. My readers are already acquainted
with Dorothy's " attachment," prior to her marriage with Will. The
sailor boy referred to in several of my previous chapters was origi-
nally an apprentice at Cartown, and engaged to Dorothy while both
were in their teens. A bad master and indifferent parents had led
to his running away ; but Dorothy was made fully aware of his plans,
and was afterwards thrown into a flutter of delight, at uncertain inter-
vals, by his characteristic and encouraging letters. The last she had
received told her of his being made chief mate of his ship, and spoke
of his return, when he intended to put into the port of matrimony for
the remainder of his days. But month after month, year after year,
passed away, and Dorothy received no more tidings of her lover ;
and at length even she was compelled to believe, with everybody
else, that he was dead. My readers know what eventually followed ;
but they do not know that hardly had Dorothy and Will been
married two years, when the runaway apprentice returned from his
long exile, years of which he had spent in a foreign prison. It was
a great trial for Dorothy, but she bore it. The returned sailor, in
despair, would have carried her off, but Dorothy calmly resisted ail
his temptations. Will Tunater, honest, warm-hearted Will, would
.have given her up and cancelled her marriage.

Stranger than Fiction. 135

The woman having become the wife, was not, however, to be
shaken in her honour and integrity.

" I loved thee once, Tom Huntly," she said, " and thou knows it ;
but now and for ever thou art as dead to me as% I thought thee when
I stood in our old parish church, and bound myself, for weal or for
woe, to Will Tunster, the mail-driver of Crossley."

Nevertheless there was long afterwards a shadow on the spirit of
Dorothy, but she never let it fall upon Will Tunster, though she could
not help showing it to Jacob and Lucy. She was a true wife to Will,
combatting and conquering what she regarded as the unlawful bent
of her affection towards her early love. Patiently, and with enduring
fortitude, did the good soul strive to forget the past, and to love,
honour, and obey the man who had sworn to cherish and protect her.
In the .end, as the duties of the mother succeeded to those of the
wife, a higher and holier feeling took the place of respect and esteem ;
and Will Tunster was beloved of Dorothy his wife.

"There are homesteads which have witnessed deeds
That battle fields, with all their bannerM pomp,
Have little to compare with. Life's great play,
May, so it have an actor great enough,
Be well performed upon a humble stage/'

(To be concluded next month.)

Li

The Oberland in January.

>HE number of English who annually visit Switzerland in
the summer has been estimated at an average of thirty-
five thousand persons. Save those who go on business,
the number of visitors in winter time perhaps hardly
exceeds a hundred, and these do not penetrate to the depths of the
country. The experience, then, of a correspondent who visited the
Jungfrau chain last January in search of fresh air may be not only
novel but suggestive, and alluring to others. The impressions have
at least the merit of being fresh, as they were recorded on the spot.
We understand that all the beauties described have been in high
perfection this season, and that they do not begin to lose their charm
before the first or second week in March. So there is yet time for
those who have opportunity and inclination to see for themselves the
marvels of nature described by the writer of the following letters.

HUel de V Ours, Grindelwald, January 17, 1872.

" A mad world, my masters ! " cried an experienced journalist,
when 1 told him I was going to spend a brief holiday in the Bernese
Oberland this month. "Why, apart from your being frozen to
death in the first six hours, or being buried in snowdrift, which comes
to the same thing, you will find when you get to Bale that there's no
such thing as an Oberland now. Albert Smith invented Switzerland,
and ever since the Federal authorities at Berne have contracted to
have the mountains put up in the spring, and taken down in the
autumn for repairs. Have you insured your life ? for you'll be killed
to a certainty. Good-bye. But, by Jove, it's a good idea, and — and
I wish I were going with you." In Brussels, friends were about
to lay violent hands on me. It was only in Berne that I
received any encouragement. Ifwas the hardest winter that had
been known for many years in Switzerland — this, said deprecatingly,
was not exhilarating — and the view from Interlaken would be
magnificent. I might, by chance, get an enterprising owner of
horses eating their heads off at Unterseen to take me as far as
the fork at Zweilutschinen. It had been understood that a wild
curate from somewhere westward of London had just returned
after a fortnight about the lakes of the Oberland, but he had

The Oberland in January. 137

been able to do nothing, except look at the mountains from a
respectful distance when the clouds would let him. It was now
doubtful whether the steamers would any longer be running on
the lakes, as Brienzer was reported frozen, and Thun not very far
from it. Still it was worth trying ; so much was admitted ; and
so much being admitted, here I am, without any great difficulty
either, about as much in the middle of the Bernese Alps as I
ever have been or shall be. The Faulhorn and the Hasli
Schiedeck are behind me ; on the left is the Wetterhorn and the
Schreckhorn ; in front the Finster-aarhorn, the Eiger, the Monch, the
Jungfrau, and the Wengern Alp; and on the right is the Mannlichen.
Two glaciers are within a mile of me, and the last human habitations
at this time of year I have passed this evening in a walk. If this be
not the. heart of the Oberland, then I should like to know where it is.
Yet, I repeat, getting here was a matter of course. Any one who can
stand a moderate' amount of cold may do in thirty-six hours from
Berne and back more, much more, than I have done without fatigue.

Speaking, then, from this coign of vantage, I beg to assert in the
most emphatic manner that he who has only seen the Bernese Ober-
land in summer or autumn, has not seen the Bernese Oberland at its
best. I do not write for Alpine climbers, who are a race apart, and
to whom the mountains just now would offer no attractions, seeing
that no guides could be tempted to risk their necks in scaling peaks, or
crossing passes yards deep in snow ; but for that very large section
of the British public which loves fondly and thinks it knows Swit-
zerland, there is not a feature, save foliage, that is not now tenfold
more attractive than at any other time, and the bitter weather adds
thousands of its own. Add to all that one has the country to one's
self, that the beggars and touts, who in summer render the place
unbearable, have vanished absolutely, that ten francs now go as far
as fifteen or sixteen in the tourist season, and then let those who can
spare a fortnight, and who can stand a cold of ten or twelve degrees
of frost, say whether they will not make an effort, at the cost of ten
pounds or so, to reach this place and Lauterbrunnen at least

Let us, if you please, take the journey as far as Berne for granted.
Leaving the Federal capital at six o'clock in the morning, it was
of course quite dark, and for more than half the distance to Thun at
the exit of the River Aar from Thunen See, what with the laggard
habits of the sun, and the lowering clouds, and the driving snow, the
only thing a sensible person, who had the whole of the first and
second class carriages to himself, could do, was to curl up by the
stove and go to sleep. Wakened by a demand for a ticket, the

138 The Gentleman's Magazine.

traveller found himself apparently still in dreamland. It was broad
daylight, the snow had just ceased, the whole face of the country,
dulled on the previous day by partial thaw, was white — well, what can
I say better than white as snow ? — the telegraph wires looked like
thick ropes of frosted glass, and on every tree the crystals, that froze
hard as they had fallen, assumed ten thousand fantastic forms, and
seemed even more beautiful than everybody knows snow crystals are.
It was rather trying, I will grant, to step from the warm compartment
to the cold and wet deck of the early steamboat ; but if it had not
been that sleet set in as though sent by the monarch of the peaks to
scare off the rash intruder, it would have been worth braving mere
cold to see how the veil of mist lifted from the mountains, and how
what had promised to be a day of misery — of rain that no macintosh
would turn, and cold that no fur coat would keep out — became all of
a sudden promising, and in the course of an hour literally brilliant
It is commonly so among these mountains at this time of year. For
one bad day they have twenty good ones, and fifteen bad nights.
The night before I came up was, I heard, awful. The thermometer
was down to zero, some say below it. Snow fell thickly from time
to time, but not for long at a time, and Boreas blew a blast on the
" horns" hereabout that made children creep in close to their mothers,
and woke the echoes to more sublime effect than that dreadful instru-
ment with which they torture you in the Oberland in summer and
autumn. Yesterday and to-day, on the contrary, have been perfectly
peaceful. Last night and to-night the sunsets were things to travel a
thousand miles to see, and the moon to-night is shedding a glory of
light on the everlasting green ice up above yonder, and the driven
snow of the hill sides and the meadows.

Among the first curious things that a passenger by the early
steamer from Thun or Scherziigen would have noted were the now
half tame crows of the mountains, who came about the deck like
robins on an English window-sill, in search of the bread which die
kindly souls of " the Swiss naval service" are ever careful to leave for
them. Three such black crows were good enough to act as tutelary
spirits yesterday morning, and they will continue to do so until the
snow melts and discloses the fine fat worms of the fallows within
reach. The next curious thing was that about three-fourths of the
houses at or near Interlaken seemed to be utterly deserted. Hotels
and bazaars, hair cutting establishments, and the makers of mock
alpenstocks, all alike had more than adopted the early closing
movement, for they did not open at all. As I had unhappily forgotten
my writing case at Bile, it cost me a good hour to find enough

Tlie Oberland in yanuary. 139

*

paper whereon to write up here. Interlaken, like the few bears
left over in the Grisons, is hibernating ; it lives only by visitors, but
the tourist who accepts my invitation hither at this time will find one
very good hotel in full swing next door to the post-office.

I did not hurry away from Interlaken, deserted as the place is.
There is a charm in the contrast between such a turmoil of pleasure
as in summer reigns here and such desolation as now exists. But,
after all, one does not care to dwell long on the melancholy side of
the case when Nature, in her most glorious attire, is smiling a welcome
— when the Schynige Platte, a usual sight for gaping tourists, from
his " hackneyed height" calmly looks down, clad in a pure white
robe, as much as to say, " I am safe from intrusive feet for one day;"
when "throned Eternity, in icy halls of cold sublimity," at once
attracts and repels. This is no time for lingering in tame Interlaken,
though, indeed, one might dream hours away in ecstasy at the
splendour of the sun on the southern side of the Stuffelberg and
Steinberg — commonly bare walls of rugged rock, now a mass of
myriad diamonds in snow. This is no time for a carriage;
nor for horse exercise, seeing that the roads are like, nay are,
ice. There is nothing for it but a sledge on the level and a walk
up-hill. Jingle go the bells, the snow balls in the hoofs of the good
horse, the runners glide merrily over the frozen track : it is at the rate
of ten miles an hour in a moment, and for a moment only, for here
begins the ascent — a mile from Interlaken. Past the end of Ausser-
beig we go — now fast, now slow — and reach the stream called the
Lutschen, which we shall follow to two of its sources. Nothing to note
so far, beyond what we know of old. Here we are at the Rothenfluh
— I wonder how many red cliffs and red peaks there are in Switzerland !
— and barely glance at its familiar scarp, flecked here and there with
some snow lodged on a shelf, when — nay, it is clear that our eyes
deceived us, that imagination played us false when we thought we
saw a very Niagara of ice. It is a long climb past this bit of forest
which cut the vision from our view, but then we shall clearly see
that it was only the product of some wild idea in a mind diseased
by the contemplation of transformation scenes in pantomimes. By
all that is beautiful, it is no vision, but a solid fact, so lovely as to
give the go-by to all mental creations. Why have we not an accom-
plished artist, or at least some poor mechanical person, with a pre-
pared plate and a camera, here, that this miracle of Nature may be
carried home to make the men and women within the four seas
marvel? Words must fail, yet words must try, to convey a slight
notion of this grand result of winter's handiwork. Hundreds who

140 The Gentleman's Magazine.

read these lines have probably passed this Rothenfluh without know-
ing that in wet seasons a small rivulet trickles over from a slight
hollow in the sky line of the cliff. It is too insignificant for the
notice of any of the guide books ; but it and winter have joined
hands here to form the most wondrous beauty that ever the eye saw.
For a space of four or five hundred feet in length by the height of
the cliff, which cannot here be far short of seven hundred feet, the
little stream has cast itself into a solid mass. The water, drifted by
the wind now to this narrow ledge of the precipitous cliff, now to
that, has dripped over and made icicles, and then more icicles, and
then icicles once again, until it is not icicles that you see but a large
body of water turned solid as by a magician's wand. And then the
ice is the colour of the sea when white sand forms the bottom, and
on to this solid ice the wind has driven sheets of spray, that have
formed fine lace-work over the masses of ice and froze as they formed.
Thousands of tons of sea-green topaz, carven by the fairies and draped
with Valenciennes — etherealise that, and you may have a distant idea
of the glory yesterday and to-day of the north-east face of the
Rothenfluh. To come from England or Scotland, see this, and go
back without looking an inch farther, the journey would yet not be
lost. It is the very boudoir of the Alps — a tiring room for the
Goddess of Cold.

All along the cliffs are littie cascades of ice, but none even
approaching in magnificence to this. Yet they who wait till May to
begin thinking of coming hither will miss all the beauty of what I
have, I feel how vainly, attempted to describe. To the left, the
white Wetterhorn, now in icy mail from head to heel, forms a back-
ground to the valley of the Black Lutschen, of which more anon.
We bear to the right, by the banks of the White Lutschen, towards
Lauterbrunnen. Once more we are in luck. Hardly a cloud in the
sky and not a particle of mist round the crown of the Wengern Alp
to the left front, or of the Schwarz Monch — Brown Monk, to dis-
tinguish him from the Monk — before us. We leave the sledge at the
very convenient little hotel which is so charmingly situated, and walk
up to the Staubbach. Positively in the whole of that six or seven
hundred yards not one of the swarms of children who are amusing
themselves with their toy sledges in the frozen lanes ask for money,
or do anything but stare at the stranger. In six months' time they
will be dogging the heels of every tourist, as they were six months
ago. But they are not under orders from home at present, and
prefer playing to begging. The women who keep carvings and
photographs do not pester, although they rush eagerly out to open

The Oberland in J 'annary. 141

their wares ; but they civilly take a u No," and give us " Good day "
as we pass back. The man with the Alpine horn surprises half-a-
franc out of a pocket usually buttoned to such appeals by really
asking beforehand whether he may start the echoes. Such a change
was never heard of. Here are these mendicants and touters, reckoned
among the very worst in Europe, positively returned for eight months
in the year to the aboriginal simplicity in which they existed before
steam and the immortal lecture on " Mont Blanc " made them and
their valleys famous. Tourists who have smarted will doubtless aver
that the picture is too much couleur dc rose. I can only say, Come and
see — before May.

There is a very tiny driblet of water coming over on the Staubbach,
but what there is well justifies the name of the Dustbrook, for none
of it in a solid form reaches the bottom of the cliff. Yet it has
accumulated in terrace after terrace of green and white icicles that
would be marvellous if one had not half an hour before seen the
Rothenfluh. And every now and then, as the vanished spray again
takes the form of water, and penetrates under the banks of icicles,
it forces them up with a roar like thunder, and escapes under them
down the rest of the cliff. Questionless, the Staubbach is much more
beautiful now'than in summer time, but it is still much inferior to the
Rothenfluh, which nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every
thousand visitors to the Valley of Endless Springs never see in any
shape.

We regain our hotel without an interruption from the erst touters
and mendicants save a kindly " Good day;" and in sheer dismay lest
this part of the report should be deemed too incredible, I propose to
adjourn the details of the rest of my trip till to-morrow — the more
that twelve hours of mountaineering in January on the Oberland is
not conducive to fluent composition when dinner is over.

Interlaken, January iSt/i.

I had intended to go to Grindelwald from Lauterbrunnen, by the
usual summer path behind the Wengern Alp; but when I learnt
that part of the way was impassable even for sledges, as I had
guessed, and that it would be too dangerous for horses, which I had
not contemplated, I, feeling lazy, went again down the Hunnenfluh
road, and halted at Zweilutschinen while I attempted the compara-
tively easy climb of the Eisenfluh. Thus I was disappointed in one
of my main objects. I had desired to approach the Jungfrau as
closely as was compatible with not too much personal exertion, and
to see the "Virgin" in all her splendour at this season of her greatest

142 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

glory. But, apart from the laziness which I. confess without a morsel
of shamefacedness, nature does not arrange things nicely this time of
year for a fourteen or fifteen hours' mountain trip. The next best
thing, clearly, was to try the path to Eisenfluh. Close by the well-
known narrow road over the cliff some will remember, ten to fifteen
minutes from the Bear Hotel, a little bit of rugged rock on the right
under a group of firs and bushes. Here is an ice cascade which far
excels that of the Rothenfluh in all but size. It is not more than ten
feet wide by eight feet high; and the water is derived solely from the
drainage of the bit of woodland which slopes upward from the broken
face. Here one can, by chipping a bit off, trace the layers of the ice-
formation in a manner so clear that the phenomenon seems to be
worth a moment's consideration. First the little falling water had
become frozen in sheets and ribs ; then there was an interval, pro-
bably a thaw,, during which some of the ribs became flattened ; next,
I take it, there was a storm, with a low temperature, for the ice was
lace-like in its formation ; and almost the same day there must have
been sleet or rain, for this lace was covered with a transparent mass of
ice two and a quarter inches thick ; over this again came ribs and
broad intervening hollows ; and, finally, lace-work so exquisite that
I never before saw the like : it was rather net than lace, so minute
were the perforations, and so perfectly diamond-shaped the pattern ;
on which, at almost regular intervals, came little dots of solid snow,
carried over the edge of the rock, and now more, now less, over the
face of the cascade. Art could not have fashioned anything more
cunningly, and I foolishly lingered over this morsel so long that I
had not more than time to reach the nearest point of the ridge of
Eisenfluh — to say nothing of going as far as the hamlet — before I
became conscious that I must return. However, there was the Jung-
frau, with the Black Monk almost in the foreground — as they say, you
must make love to a Spanish girl through her confessor — and beyond
all doubt, she was never seen in better trim. The bright sun shone
again from her icy peaks; but there was not such an improvement on
her face as on that of her inferior sisters. She has been viewed to as
much advantage in summer time; but at any time I cannot help
thinking she is much overrated. The view, as regards novelty, was
hardly worth the trouble of the ascent, and was certainly not worth
the danger of the descent. Often as circumstances have placed me in
peril, I was never nearer breaking my neck than when I slipped,
nearly within sight of the Bear Hotel, and slid on my breast head-
foremost for some thirty yards, stopping on a little 'flat about four feet
short of a jump of a hundred and twenty feet in the clear, among

The Obtrland in January. 143

some snow-laden pine branches. Although it is not my custom to
drink spirits during Alpine excursions, I was glad to get a glass of
brandy at the Bear, and to find myself safe once more on the sledge.
The moral of all this I take to be that in mid-winter one ought to be
content with the valleys and such plateaux as may be gained in a
sledge, or, if one must climb, to take on an easy path precisely the
same precautions as one would take on a difficult one.

The valley of the Black Lutschen is marvellously lovely at present.
On the left hand the notable elevations called in the district " The
Hand" — of which I can find no mention either in Baedecker, Murray,
or the elaborate French book — are very charming. Snow just flecks
the four fingers, while the thumb, which I take to be synonymous
with what is called on the maps the Rothhorn, is almost as white as
the Jungfrau herself. The Wetterhorn, pure and snow-clad from its
base at the upper glacier to the noble peak, is seen to much better
advantage than in summer time, and forms a magnificent background
to the bleak valley. Some new bridges are being constructed over
the torrent bed, through which a tiny stream now ripples, as often
as not hidden by ice and supervening snowdrift ; but the old bridges
are not by any means unsafe, and might very well be trusted for the
next spring floods. Just before the point at which the road begins its
winding there are on the cliff on the right a number of comparatively
small ice cascades, one of which is singular in the extreme. A series
of small terraces of greenish-white ice descends from the top of the
almost perpendicular cliff for about half its height, and then is formed
a column as perfect as any one of those in Cologne Cathedral,
resembling these also in its slender and lofty proportions. The
capital is almost Corinthian in its florid detail, and the column rests
on an ice bracket, which gives one the idea of a shelf from which
tropical plants are trailing. The whole seems as if the series of
terraces was being supported on this one beautifully proportioned and
finely finished pillar, which, in its turn, appears to rest on air, for there
is no ice on the cliffs face anywhere below it. At very brief intervals
on both sides of the valley the cascades dash out of horizontal clefts
in the rock, here and there suggesting plumes of feathers, so delicate
are their details ; again imitating monsters such as one sees engraved
in old books. Fantastic to the extreme, these ice marvels are ever
pleasing, and when they are largest, and, by consequence, least diver-
sified, their colour, which ranges from pure white or pale green to
brown where they are mingled with earth, and pale red where they
are tinged with iron, lends them a charm that is less capable of being
described than of being admired.

144 The Gentlentatis Magazine.

Approaching Grindelwald, the Eiger, the Monch, and the Jung-
frau are revealed in succession. The last is, of course, seen only
in its smaller horn, and not much even of that is displayed. Still
there is enough in the light of the setting sun to entrance the
spectator. I have never seen anything in the Alps to compare with
the glorious scene of last night in the valley around Grindelwald.
The snow became a lovely rose colour on every western facing peak and
cliff; and where the direct rays did not strike, the diffused light made
the snow crystals gleam again. Then, as the pink flush died higher
and higher, there came over the face of the north-eastern heavens a
green light, which lasted for a few minutes only, and gave place to a
rosy hue, which in its turn was succeeded by a paler green, that
faded at last into the darkly, deeply, beautifully blue sky of a moon-
light night in the Alps. And then the moon, which had been keeping
company with the sun for two or three hours, had it all her own
way, and bathed the mountains and the snow in a delicious flood of
light which lasted until the witching hour had come and gone. I
ventured down to the glaciers with the last morsel of daylight, and
even a few yards upon that snout of the alligator's head into which
the lower glacier seems to form itself. But nothing could have been
more dangerous. The snow was more slippery than the ice itself,
and did not lie in sufficient depth to give the least foothold. With
the conviction that the interests neither of readers nor of science
would be furthered by foolhardiness, I unwillingly retraced my paces,
entrancing though the varying tints of the ice that peeped under the
snow here and there were in the dying light of day. To do more
than glance at the upper and more beautiful glacier was impossible,
but I found that there is less difference than usual between the two
in point of purity. Whether it be that the rains, sleet, and thaws of
winter have washed clean the monster's head between the Eiger and
the Mettenberg I cannot say, but if there is anything to choose in
point of dirt, yesterday and to-day the lower glacier bears away the
palm of cleanliness. Much of this may, of course, be due to the
whitenesss of the friendly snow ; but I think the guide books at any
time do the lower and larger glacier an injustice when they dwell*
upon its fouler appearance.

In the course of the evening I found that no visitor had attempted
either glacier since the first week of October — indeed the names of
none are recorded on the books of any of the hotels that are open
since the seventeenth of that month, when some Americans left a
record of their journey. The two guides to whom I spoke, without
going so far as to say that an ascent to the Mer de Glace was

The Oberland in yanuary. 145

impossible, manifested no alacrity in offering to make the attempt,
and scouted the very idea of venturing under five times the usual
charges. Now, to pay five times the usual money, in order to secure
fiftyfold chances of virtual suicide, would seem rather an insane pro-
ceeding even for the pleasure of saying that one had done what no
other had ever tried, or for the sake of describing a scene the
beauties whereof must be chiefly concealed by sheets of snow.

The skilful guides to whom one looks up in summer as to masters
of the mysteries of mountain lore, are now engaged in the ordinary
avocations of Swiss peasants. They are haling firewood on sledges
through the snowdrifts, and splitting and piling it into what Ameri-
cans would call "cords." Or they carry food to the cattle which used
to roam over the mountain pastures that are locally called Alps — as
though "alp "did not properly mean peak instead of pasture — and which
are now carefully housed in those scattered chalets that look so pic-
turesque from a distance and so very dirty on a nearer acquaintance.
This morning even the Grindelwalders confessed that it was very
cold. Truth to tell, nothing but sharp exercise could keep the
life in one. The breath froze upon the moustache, and the eyes
smarted as though snuff or pepper had been thrown into them. The
sun rose grandly, dissipating that extraordinary purple tint which a
clear dawn throws upon snow anywhere as much as in these high
places, but which is perhaps intensified just outside the line of the
half suggested rather than marked shadow of the mountains that
intercept the heralds of the sun. And yet the sunrise, except when
seen from a great eminence, is less notable than the sunset among
the Alps, as well in winter as in summer. The light is cold and
white. No rosy flush lights up the lofty summits ; and probably
there is something in the fact that at night in these regions one
enjoys the thought that a hard day's work is over, and feels
more at liberty to admire that which can be seen without further
labour. In the morning the cares of the day leave little room for
romance or time for admiration. So it was with me to-day.
After a breakfast of good milk and bad eggs and good honey,
paid for at a price that would have more than satisfied the
manager of any railway hotel in England, I started for the lower
glacier to see the process of cutting blocks of ice for the market
of poor frivolous, luxurious Paris, which was little thinking this time
twelve months back of sorbets and cabinet wines cooled to a shade of
nicety. I did not see any blocks actually cut; but several were
trimmed in my presence, loaded on a sledge, and despatched hither
that they might be sent, via Neuhaus, Thun, Berne, and Pontarlier,

146 The Gentleman s Magazine.

to the capital of civilisation and entrepot of all that — vide Victor
Hugo passim — was unconquerable in France by the Germans. Pas-
sing these blocks afterwards on the road down it was curious to note
that, although the sun-rays had not reached them, and although the
temperature had never gone nearer thawing than 26 or 27 degrees
Fahrenheit, nevertheless the sharp edges of the blocks and nearly all
the tool marks were gone, as though glacier ice thaws when the air
is lower than 32 degrees. Can that be so as a matter of fact?

There were two things worthy of observation in the journey down
to this, the inner gate of the Oberland. One was the thousands of
crows which fairly blackened now the air as they flew, now the snow
where they settled. The extreme cold has laid not a few of these
predatory ornithological negroes dead by the roadside, but still they
rise in myriads and haunt the neighbourhood of the chalets, which
may aftord a morsel of food over which to have a battle royal. Any-
thing like the number of these birds I have never seen. In one flock,
if I may use the word, I had counted up to 230 when they rose, and
then they were not half numbered. The other point was the change
which one night had wrought in the shape of the masses of ice on the
Rothenfluh. One piece, which yesterday was a delicate fringe, was
to-day solid as a knife-blade. Another was yesterday a congeries of
huge stalactites — two hours ago it was but a serrated edge. And
yet there has been no thaw, no wind, no sleet, no snow, no rain, to
affect these beautiful forms. King Frost appears to deal with them
as a child deals with a box of bricks. Now they take one shape, now
another, without apparent law. Any artist who may accept my advice
to come here and copy nature and make his fortune, must be content
to hurry in his transcript of the patterns provided for him, or be dis-
appointed, when he returns to finish his sketch, to find that Nature has
been beforehand with him, and given him new beauties instead of old.

Charles Williams.

rs*+*+^K***>0^0*^^'*0^.>s*^^»*0*&'t*^

A "Stalk" in Thibet.

BY FRED WILSON.

(O SYLVANUS URBAN.— In the old days, when any
remarkable event transpired, particulars of it were sent
to the Editor of the Gentleman's Magazine. May I be
permitted to copy the ancient notion ? I ask you with
the greater confidence because the subject I wish to introduce
belongs to "sports and pastimes," which you treat so well —
and through famous pens — in the modernised pages of your illustrious
periodical. If your admirable contributor, " H. H. D.," whom you
introduced into your shilling series a few years ago, had been alive, he
would have thoroughly appreciated the little sketch which I enclose.
It is from the pen of Mr. Fred Wilson, a well-known sportsman in
India, and mentioned, as you will no doubt remember, by Colonel
Markham in his " Sport in the Himalayas." Here is my friend's
sketch : —

I have just got back from a little excursion in Thibet. My feet, I
fancy, will never be what they were, for though all symptoms of gout
have disappeared, they fail me a little in very rough ground. I could
■do well enough on the moors, or in a stubble or turnip-field, or in one
of your English woods or plantations ; but all these are very different
from the Himalayas. Set to work and build four or five miles of a
broad flight of stone steps to the moon, send an army of navvies with
sledge hammers to smash all to pieces, and you will have something
akin to many of the hills in Thibet. Ponies do well enough on the
roads, but they soon get lame if taken out after game. Yaks are
better, and I rode one of these all the time. They will go almost
anywhere your nerves will allow you to take them ; but one keeps
for safety and comfort on the best ground. From this and other
causes my bag was a very small one, and Harry Fowler might easily
have beaten me even in weight It consisted of two Ovis Ammon, a
few hares, and a few sand grouse — the hares and grouse shot for the
kitchen. In a space of country the size of Yorkshire there are only
four or live flocks of Ovis Amnion^ so you may be sure it is no easy
matter to find them. The first week was entirely blank, and it was
not till Friday of the second that I saw any. This was the ist of

148 The Gentleman s Magazine.

September, though I did not recollect that till some days after.
About ten o'clock I spied some females on a ridge nearly a mile
away, and leaving my riding yak, and another which we always took
with us to carry game, in charge of one of the Tartars, I went to
stalk the sheep. There was a wide ravine to cross, and going down
one side of this and up the other took some time. When I reached
the- place I found, to my great mortification, the sheep had also
crossed, and gone to the hill I had come from, but a good distance
below. I was debating with myself whether to go back and follow
them, or go on to fresh ground, when, sweeping the further hills with
the glass, I had the satisfaction to see five old rams quietly grazing.
I sent the Tartar who was with me back to beckon to his comrade
to come with the yaks, and while he was away the rams lay down for
their noonday siesta. When the yaks came we all went on about half a
mile, and then I left them and proceeded to the stalk. I got within
about three hundred yards, and found there was no possibility of getting
a rifle's length nearer unperceived. There was nothing for it but to
fire from where I was at once, or to lie still till the rams got up and
commenced feeding again, for the chance of their coming my way. As
I was not sure of hitting at the distance, I chose the later plan, and lay
watching the magnificent beasts for more than an hour. Two seemed to
be asleep, and three lying quiet but wakeful. At last, one after another,
they got up and commenced grazing, but, unfortunately, they turned
their faces the wrong way, and every step would take them still farther
off. It was getting well on in the afternoon, and as they might not graze
out of sight so as to allow me to get up and follow till dark, there
was nothing for it but to chance the shot. If they had been another
hundred yards off I should have left them and bivouacked somewhere
near, and gone after them in the morning ; but three hundred yards
is not such a very long shot for a first-rate Henry express rifle, so
singling out the ram which I thought had the finest horns, I took a
very steady aim, with a good rest, and fired. The report was like the
signal to start for the Doncaster St. Leger. The rams started off at
a racing pace, so fast that I could not get in the second barrel ere
they were out of range entirely, but, to my great delight, the one I
had fired at soon began to lag behind, and in a few seconds more
was left by itself. The Tartars, who had been watching proceedings,
came on with the yaks, and we were soon on the trail. Waiting
behind any ridge or swell when the ram was in sight, and following
as fast as we could when hid from view, evening closed on us without
the chance of another shot. There was but little blood on the track,
but enough to show the wound was more than a graze, and we might

A Stalk in Thibet. 149

find the animal dead in the morning ; so, though a bivouac without
bedding in these cold regions is anything but pleasant, we looked out
for the most sheltered place, and made ourselves as comfortable as we
could for the night. Fire was out of the question, for there was
nothing to burn. Fortunately I had a small blanket under the
saddle to prevent galling, and, wrapping myself in it, did not suffer
so much from the cold as I feared. A few more of such nights
though wouldn't be a cure for the gout. There was a little cold tea
left in the bottle, and some remains of breakfast in the bag, of which
I made a supper, and then tried to go to sleep. In this I was not
very successful, and felt very much inclined to follow the track by the
bright moonlight Such nights always seem very long, but daybreak
came at last, and it was a great relief to be moving and to get warm
again. There was no difficulty in picking up the trail, and we
followed it up one hillside and down another for some miles till I
began to fear we should see no more of the ram. There was no
blood, but the footprints in the sandy or gravelly soil were easy
enough to follow. At last we came on a wide plain and disturbed
a troop of wild horses, and these trotted on in front for some dis-
tance, nearly obliterating the tracks of our ram. To remedy this, I
halted and sent one of the Tartars round to drive the horses on one
side, in which he succeeded, and our way was free again. It was
nearly noon, and I was getting both tired and hungry, when one of
the Tartars, who went on ahead a little whenever I was in the saddle,
crouched down, and I knew he saw either our ram or some other
game. I threw myself off the yak, unslung the rifle, and when I got up
to him saw the ram lying down, but apparently not much the matter
with it. It was out of range, and with the glass I could not see
where it was hit In all probability it was ours, being on the track
which we had never lost, and by itself. I made a careful stalk, and
got a hundred yards from it, and the express at anything like that
distance is as certain and deadly as any of the wonderful weapons in
Cooper's novels, so I felt and knew the chase was now over. The
ram never got on its legs again, the little piece of lead sped to its
destination, and in another moment I was walking up to the dead
animal It was a splendid specimen. The skin was of no use, it
being the time these sheep change their coats, but the horns were
magnificent ones. The flesh was more than one yak could carry.

All this time we had been going right away from the camp, and it

was getting well on in the afternoon ere we had skinned and cut up

the sheep and loaded the yak. I had a shoulder of the mutton

strapped on each side behind the saddle, and we went on our way

Vol. X., N.S. 1873. M

1 50 The Gentleman s Magazine.

rejoicing, the Tartars having made a breakfast on a portion of the
raw liver. I tasted it, but did not join in this particular meal.
It was after midnight when we reached the camp, and the pint of hot*
tea immediately got ready for me — wasn't it good ? To enjoy a cup
of hot tea you must come and take a long day's walk over the
Thibet hills and get home to it just at dusk or after dark. If you
were a deer-stalker you would want to know where the first bullet hit
the ram for it to travel such a distance and to live nearly twenty-
four hours afterwards. It had struck the fore leg, but had not broken
the bone, and also hit the breast bone.

The Ovis Ammoti is the largest but one of all the wild sheep. It
is the mouflon of Buffon, and the argali of modern naturalists. It is
found widely spread on the high table lands of Thibet The largest
of all the wild sheep is the Ovis Poliiy found in Pamir, about the sources
of the Oxus. I have not been there, and I think the only European
of the present century who has was Lieut Wood. He was no sports-
man, and merely mentions the existence of the animal. It was to
this part of the country Mr. Hayward was proceeding when he was
so brutally murdered.

Let me supplement this, to all sportsmen, very interesting narra-
tive by the remark that the Ovis Ammon is so difficult of approach
that only five or six of our countrymen have been successful in
bagging these magnificent wild sheep. I write this on the banks of
the Tagus. Armed with the cap of Fortunatus and Campbell's
" Pleasures of Hope " I came here in the spring in search of an
El Dorado. I wander amid primeval forests, beneath a bright blue
sky, and I pity Sylvanus Urban's foggy quarters in the regions of St
John's Gate. I confess to a thrill of pleasure pn entering the general
room at the Hotel Central, Lisbon, to find a new copy of the
Gentleman's, with an instalment of the new poet's latest poem.

I could not manage the campaign in Scotland this year, or you

would have had specimens of both the fur and the feather. Although

we have no game in the Peninsula, we find plenty of "food for

powder," the banks of the Tagus being a favourite resort for a great

variety of long-beaks, i.e. woodcock, snipe, teal, duck, &c. I went

out the other day and made a famous bag, chiefly snipe. Fancy

this : we had breakfast al fresco, in an orange grove, the trees

splendid with golden fruit; the month, December! I will not

torture you further, but hope your sporting readers will enjoy a Stalk

in Thibet

C. S.

Life in London.

IV.— FORECASTING.

|HE phases of life in London are abundant enough to
keep this series of papers running while Sylvanus Urban
sits in his chair, though he should live ten times as long
yet as the past history of his magazine. There is no
need to look backward or forward for subjects. Yet, while the
wonderful drama is enacting before him, the reflective Londoner must
close his eyes sometimes and speculate on the future of life in this
great city. What London is to-day we know. What may it be only
one hundred years hence ? The period is short The grandchildren
of about a million of our neighbours now dwelling on the banks of
the Thames will live to report on the aspects of the capital in 1973-
What is the tale they will have to tell ?

In science, invention, and discovery, we can never imagine far
beyond immediate possibilities. Whatever practical thing can be
really conceived of can very soon be realised. Speculation on the
material conditions of the future must therefore at the best be vague.
Nevertheless there are very good grounds for building a passably
probable structure of guesses on the future of this great capital for
two or three generations.

Population is the first element in the inquiry. How many people
will there be assembled round the old city as a centre in 1973 ? I
will assume a continued increase during the forthcoming century.
The point is open to doubt ; but the balance of argument is largely
in favour of the growth of the capital, decade by decade, if not year
by year, at least for some ages yet. A great city adds to its
population by two processes : one the natural increase, and the other
the attraction of strangers. Both these causes, so far as one may
judge, are likely to remain operative for a long time.

Almost nothing is known about the laws which regulate the natural
increase, and there are instances in the world of populations
unaccountably standing still in point of numbers, and even receding-
But there is no such instance in the history of those races of north-
western Europe by whom chiefly this country is peopled. The
phenomenon of the rapid extension of the Anglo-Saxons will probably^
not go on for ever ; but it can hardly stop suddenly. It has been at

152 TJie Gentleman's Magazine.

work for upwards of a thousand years, and never more remarkably
than in our own times. It is surely good for another century.
Natural tendencies like these in the blood of particular races, mani-
fested with fair uniformity during a thousand years, do not cease in a
generation or two without notice and without external cause. The
times of ignorance and folly are gone by when society was likely to
make and persist in any social blunder large enough to check the
development of the physical proclivities of the population. It would
be rash to attempt to anticipate the possibilities of a long indefinite
period of the future ; but for the small space of a hundred years a
high degree of probability attaches to the assumption that the natural
increase of our population will follow the course of our experience.

But the artificial increase? Is the habit of clustering round a
great centre likely to continue ? It is hard to imagine a decline of
the influences which cause London to grow by external accretion.
Its commercial advantages are at least as great in the prospect as in
the retrospect. Its position and facilities for trading are at least as
good, comparatively, as in any past period ; and the start it has in the
race, by reason of its immense population of consumers and intelli-
gent distributors, heavily handicaps all competitors. If London were
cribbed in by physical boundaries her manufactories would gradually
betake themselves to other quarters; but there are no practical
limits to the expansion of her area. Whole counties lie round her,
waiting to come within the pale. All Essex and Kent, as well as
Surrey, are open to become her workshop, and she is surrounded by
a fair country for pleasant homes for the people of coming genera-
tions.

In attractiveness, independently of business advantages, time seems
all on our side. London is healthful beyond almost all her compeers,
and promises at least to keep pace with the best of them in improving
her sanitary condition. As she grows in size she grows in beauty.
Take them for all in all, there are no more charming suburbs in the
island. Every year adds some improvement, some grace, and some
of the facilities and advantages associated with a predominant centre
of civilisation. Nearly all the evils of Old London are on the mend.
Its river walls grow into carriage* drives and promenades. Broad
streets are pushing through narrow and squalid regions ; parks and
open spaces are preserved with all possible jealousy ; pleasure and
recreation grounds are opened in newly-peopled quarters. The town
is now in a transition state. Works are beginning which may
take a quarter of a century to complete, and meanwhile we shall
witness the commencement of other undertakings. Whoever lives

Life in London. 153

through the next twenty years will see the fruits ripen. There will
be vast improvements in the mere appearance of the capital. As an
attractive city in a material sense, in comparison with other great
centres, London is running a winning race.

Nor is the charm of the city, as the capital of the empire, likely to
wane. Centralisation increases. -There is a constant gravitation of
superior forces to this centre. Genius, energy, enterprise, fly to
London, as the focus of power. It is the one spot from which the
country can be moved. Not a sign arises of a reaction upon this
tendency. No one thinks of proposing new centres of imperial
action. Facilities of intercourse are all on the same side. The
time is coming when, by turns, the whole population of the kingdom
will spend a portion of their year in the capital. Our colonies will
by-and-by be tenanted by millions where there are now only hun-
dreds and thousands, and there must be constant personal inter-
course between the colonists and our metropolis. The ratio of this
coming and going will increase as travelling becomes easier and
cheaper. The mere temporary population, which is now very large,
will be magnified immensely, and the more there may be who come
the larger will be the numbers who will remain. If Great Britain's
good fortune continue, and her children everywhere increase, as they
surely must in the century before us, London, as the seat of Govern-
ment, the centre of attraction for genius and ambition, the very
temple of the highest arts and the source of the foremost efforts of
thought, can hardly fail to maintain the position she now holds in
relation to the empire.

But what of her rivals elsewhere in the world? If London should
hold her own in competition with Paris, Berlin, Rome, Vienna,
Madrid, and New York, may not all the old capitals lose caste before
the wonderful uprising of some new empire city, such as Chicago or
Melbourne may become in a hundred years ?

It is impossible to estimate all the chances, but the very greatness
in commerce, in wealth, and in population of any city in the distant
continents of the West, the South, or the East, would probably tend
only to increase the importance of London, which makes haste to
stretch forth its hand to every new people assembled anywhere for
the purposes of civilisation. We have here a machinery which has
been at work, on a constantly increasing scale, for two thousand
years, always adapting itself to the times, always finding itself equal
to new emergencies. We have the imperishable advantages of
tory and tradition side by side with a great share of the 1
modern genius and enterprise. New cities in countries of s

154 The Gentleman s Magazine.

natural gifts like that in which Chicago has sprung up, may run
ahead of London in population and wealth, and outshine the ancient
capital of Britain in many ways. It is more than possible, it is quite
probable, that the next hundred years will see some such experience
as this ; for who can measure the resources which lie almost untouched
in lands like America and Australia ? I would not hazard the pre-
diction that in wealth and population no city," new or old, will run
past London. All I anticipate is that, within the period set down,
this great city will go on increasing, in all that makes her famous to-
day, at the steady pace at which she has been moving within our
own time.

If I were looking forward for a thousand years I should hesitate to
make any prediction with regard to London. The possibilities of
the next ten centuries are as far beyond conception almost as the
conditions of life on another planet, and though I have no belief
whatever in the picture of the sketching New Zealander, and am
disposed to think that in coming times only earthquakes or great
geological changes can sweep away civilisation from any of its
strongholds, I do not think that there are in existence elements of
probability enough to lend interest to a speculation upon what this
capital may be at a date so long distant But the materials are
considerable by which the likelihoods of the short period of one
hundred years may be weighed, and the inference seems to me a fair
one that London will continue at least for so long to grow as she has
grown before our eyes.

A population of about thirteen millions — that is the first result I
find if these inferences are good. The figures are a little startling.
A city of thirteen millions of inhabitants is altogether outside the
range of our experience or knowledge. Probably not a third of that
number were ever yet settled on one spot The population of the
capital of China has been guessed at four millions, but nearly all
authorities place the figure much lower, and no other city has ever
been known to contain so many people as are returned as the actual
number in London on the 3rd of April, 187 1 — viz., 3,254,260. It is
true that one Griraaldi, some hundred and fifty years ago, set down
the population of Pekin at sixteen millions ; but that was a leap in
the dark. In our time the numbers are thought to be under rather
than over four millions ; while Jeddo, the next most densely popu-
lated city of the East, has probably less than two millions. The
inhabitants of old Rome, the capital of the civilised world, were
never thought to exceed two millions; they were estimated by
Gibbon at about a million and a quarter in the fifth century. But

Life in London. *55

Rome was artificially incapable of extension in area. Villas and
gardens and other private possessions surrounded the city like a
barrier, and in order to make the most of\the space within these
limits houses were built so lofty that, to prevent frequent accidents,
the Emperors were compelled to put in force a decree that private
buildings should not run higher from the ground than seventy feet.
Pekin is even more rigidly walled in, and its area is not more than
fourteen square miles \ while the whole of London covers a hundred
.and twenty-two square miles, and may expand itself, without hin-
drance, in any direction. The English capital, indeed, adopts now
a policy which, until a comparatively recent date, was never thought
of — it lays itself out for an unlimited growth of population. The old
districts are widened up, and the new are constructed to be loosely
peopled. The ancient close-packing system has ceased, and light
and space are being let into overcrowded localities. There are now
half a million more people than there were in 1861, but the traffic in
the chief thoroughfares is easier. There are fewer dead-locks in the
streets, and business and pleasure are managed with greater facility.
These are the results of the simple fact that London has within the
last quarter of a century recognised the coming of the stress of an
unparalleled population, and made preparations to meet it Three
hundred years ago Queen Elizabeth issued a proclamation forbidding
the erection of new buildings " where none such had existed within
the memory of man ;" for the extension of the metropolis was not only
Calculated to encourage the increase of the plague, but was thought
to create trouble in governing such multitudes — a dearth of victuals,
the multiplying of beggars, an increase of artisans more than could
live together, and the impoverishment of other cities for lack of
inhabitants. At that time the whole population of England and
Wales was probably less than five millions, of whom certainly not
more than half a million lived in London. But the inhabitable
area then was very limited. Without any of the modern machinery
of speedy communication and protection from depredation, a city
stretching upwards of eleven miles from north to south and from east
to west would have been an impossibility.

The estimate of a population of 13,000,000 in 1973 is based upon
the increase of the ten years from 1861 to 187 1, which was one and
a half per cent per annum. The increase would be much greater —
showing a population of something like 16,000,000 — if calculated on
the rate of accretion in the first fifty years of the present century, and
still more if reckoned upon the percentage of the last twenty or thirty
years. The ratio of increase of the last ten years, which gives the

156 The Gentleman s Magazine.

result of 13,000,000 in 1973, is the lowest since 1841. But that the
rate has fallen somewhat since 1861 can hardly be taken to indicate
a permanent turn in the tide. The decade in which occurred the
American civil war, the stoppage of our cotton manufacture, the
greatest financial crisis of the century, and a general depression of
trade, is not a fair gauge of the tendency of the population of a great
city which suffered severely from all those causes. The fact that in
such a time the people of the capital increased by 447,000 is
evidence of the determined growth of London under difficulties.
Judging from the state of things since the census was taken nearly
two years ago, the increase of population between 187 1 and 1881
will be at a greater rate than one and a half per cent Thirteen
millions, therefore, a hundred years hence, is a very low estimate for
the population of London, and I can imagine nothing short of irre-
trievable national calamity, or a complete and wholly unlooked for
revolution in the conditions of civilisation in this part of the world,
that can prevent the realisation of that estimate.

A population of not less than thirteen millions, and a hundred years
more of progress in the arts, in science, literature, the drama : from this
date a century of inventions, discoveries, new modes of increasing
productions and sparing toil, new pleasures and comforts, higher know-
ledge of all knowable things, inestimable improvements in the art of
health, better laws and principles of government — Who can form a
conception of Life in London at the en4 of that hundred years ?
In point of time the period is short ; but there have been no ages of
the past by which may be measured this century forward. A hundred
years ago the machinery which regulates our habits and modes of
living to-day was not thought of, and we were still struggling, not very
hopefully, to emulate the highest civilisation of old Greece and Rome.
In all, except pure art, we have now gone far past those ancient
standards, and so close have we run once or twice on the heels of the
divine masters of the past that the next high wave of genius or the
next after that may land us far ahead of old history, even in the
accomplishments in which the first civilised nations most excelled.
If the story of the human race thus far may teach us anything, it
tells us now that we are past the dangers which three or four times
thrust back the advanced races and rendered necessary the beginning
of the work of civilisation afresh. Blunders so gigantic and
irreparable as those of old cannot be repeated.

On this foundation, I think we may fairly speculate on the
prospects of Life in London in 1973.

Richard Gowing.

The Republican Impeachment.

»N his pamphlet, " The Impeachment of the House of Bruns-
wick," Mr. Bradlaugh says : " The right of the members of
the House of Brunswick to succeed to the Throne is a right
accruing only from the Act of Settlement, it being clear that,
except from this statute, they have no claim to the Throne. It is
therefore submitted that should Parliament in its wisdom see fit to
enact that, after the death or abdication of her present Majesty, the
Throne shall no longer be filled by a member of the House of
Brunswick, such an enactment would be perfectly within the compe-
tence of Parliament." In the November number of this magazine I
maintained that for enacting purposes the Parliament consists of the
Sovereign, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons — a Bill
does not become law until it is voted by the Commons, voted by the*
Lords, and assented to by the Sovereign, and that therefore Parlia-
ment could not constitutionally deprive the Prince of Wales of the
reversion to the Crown without the assent of the Sovereign. I also
said that an Act barring the succession of the lawful heir to the
Throne, even if it were duly passed and assented to by Parliament,
would be a revolutionary proceeding. Mr. Bradlaugh replies : " That
the British Parliament can prevent the succession of the lawful heir to
the Throne is certain." He refers to the revolution of 1688, and
says : "If Parliament has and had no right to exclude or prevent the
succession of a 'lawful heir/ then the members of the present
House of Brunswick are illegally on the Throne — in fact, usurpers.
I contend that they are lawfully on the Throne, and may be as
lawfully ejected from it." Mr. Bradlaugh says that the number of
persons who think with him is not scant If the constitutional
history of England were taught in schools, the number of those who
assented to Mr. Bradlaugh's historical argument would be countable
on his thumbs.

With regard to Mr. Bradlaugh's quotations from the Parliamentary
debates in 1 788, it will be enough to remark that I have not denied
the authority of the two Houses of Parliament as set forth in the
dictum of Mr. Pitt : " That no person had a right to the Throne
independent of the consent of the two Houses." The component
parts of Parliament are conjointly and severally creatures of the

158 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

law. Neither the Sovereign nor the Houses of Parliament are above
the law. Mr. Bradlaugh might have cited more formally definite
authorities than extracts from debates in Parliament Sir Edward
Coke, referring to the power of Parliament, says it is "so transcendent
and absolute that it cannot be confined, either for causes or persons,
within any bounds." Bracton says of the Sovereign, " the law makes
him king." The 12 and 13 William III. c 2 (the Act of Settlement)
recites that " whereas the laws of England are the birthright of the
people thereof, and all the kings and queens who shall ascend the
Throne of this realm ought to administer the government of the same
according to the said laws." The 6 Anne, c. 7, makes it high treason
for any one to assert " that the kings or queens of this realm, by and
with the authority of Parliament, are not able to make laws and
statutes of sufficient force and validity to limit and bind the Crown
and the descent, limitation, inheritance, and government thereof."

Here, then, I have given the highest authorities as to the power
of Parliament — that is to say, I have quoted from Acts of Parliament
So far, then, Mr. Bradlaugh and I are agreed, or rather it seems that
Mr. Bradlaugh was hardly aware of the constitutional enactments,
which assert the power of Parliament. But, we must now ask, What
is Parliament and what is an Act of Parliament ? Parliament is not
the Sovereign only, or the House of Lords only, or the House of
Commons only, or the two Houses, but is the Sovereign and the two
Houses. An Act of Parliament is not a resolution of the Commons,
or a resolution of the Lords, or an edict of the Sovereign. It is not
a Bill that has been voted by the Lords and the Commons. It is
a Bill that has been voted by the Commons and by the Lords, and
been assented to by the Sovereign. Mr. Bradlaugh says : " However
absurd any statute may be, the English judges are bound to enforce
it." Precisely ; but what is a statute ? Suppose the Lords and the
Commons passed a Bill declaring it treason for any person to affirm
orally or by writing that the House of Brunswick ought to be ousted
from the succession to the Throne ; and we will further suppose that
Queen Victoria, for the first time in her reign, exercised her right of
veto, and refused her assent to the Bill. If Mr. Bradlaugh were
prosecuted according to the provisions of the Bill, the judges would
not allow the prosecution to proceed, because a Bill of the two
Houses of Parliament is not a statute, is not law, until it receives
the assent of the Sovereign. Mr. Bradlaugh refers us to the revolu-
tion of 1688. It would be sufficient forme to reply that what is done
in a period of revolution is not a precedent to be followed in a time
of settled government; but if we glance at the events of the last

TJie Republican Impeachment. 159

revolution we shall see that they emphatically contradict the theory
of Mr. Bradlaugh.

James II. left the country in November, 1688, and on the 22nd
of January the so-called Convention Parliament met Now in
the 1 W. and M., sec. 2, c 2 (the Act founded on the Bill of Rights),
we mid that the Convention Parliament was elected in compliance
with letters written by the Prince of Orange " To the Jords spiritual
and temporal being Protestants," and other letters [" to the several
counties, cities, universities, boroughs, and Cinque Ports for the
choosing of such persons to represent them as were of right to be
sent to Parliament to meet and sit at Westminster." Neither in Eng-
land nor in any other country can a Parliament, or an Assembly, or
a Congress summon itself. In a revolutionary period, when there is
no constitutional authority to summon a Parliament, some person is
obliged to usurp the authority. In England it is the prerogative of
the Crown to summon a Parliament, but on two occasions this law was
violated. The Parliament that restored Charles II. and the Parlia-
ment of 1688 were not summoned by Royal Writ Well, on the 28th
January the Convention Parliament resolved " That King James II.,
having endeavoured to subvert the Constitution of this kingdom by
breaking the original contract between King and people, and by the
advice of Jesuits and other wicked persons having violated the funda-
mental laws, and having withdrawn himself out of the kingdom, has
abdicated the government, and that the Throne is thereby vacant"
On the 13th February William and Mary were declared to be King and
Queen. The first Act of the completed Parliament was one declaring
that the Lords and Commons convened at Westminster on the 22nd
of January, 1688, "are the two Houses of Parliament, and so shall
be and are hereby declared, accounted, and adjudged to be to all
intents, constructions, and purposes whatsoever, notwithstanding
any want of writ or writs of summons, or any other defect of form or
default whatsoever, as if they had been summoned according to the
usual form." And the first Act of the first duly summoned Parliament
was the 2 W. and M., for the avoiding of all disputes and questions
concerning the being and authority of the late Parliament, which
enacts " that all and singular the Acts made and enacted in the said
(Convention) Parliament were and are laws and statutes of this
kingdom."

The change of 1688 was a revolution, but,. of all* revolutions on
record^ the most moderate and conservative. There was no change
in the form of government, and the change of Sovereign was scarcely
a change of dynasty. The monarch who had fled was succeeded by

i6o The Gentleman's Magazine.

members of his family. The Convention Parliament was summoned
by the Prince, who, though not then the de jure King of England,
was without doubt the de facto supreme power in the country. Yet
the precedent of the Restoration Parliament was followed, and not a
moment was lost in doing all that could be done to give the in-
formally summoned Parliament a constitutional title. The Houses of
Parliament were then, as now, honourably jealous of their rights and
privileges, but they were too constitutional and too law-abiding to
say : " We, the two Houses of Parliament, do not need the recognition
of the Crown to assure the validity of our Acts." On the contrary,
in the most solemn manner, they sought and obtained that consti-
tutional sanction.

But Mr. Bradlaugh refers us to the Act of Settlement, the 12 and
13 William III. c. 2, dated the 12th June, 1701 — that is, thirteen
years after the revolution — and he tells us "That the power to repeal
is as complete as the authority to enact" We turn to the statute,
and we read these words : " And the same are by His Majesty,
by and with the advice and consent of the said Lords spiritual
and temporal, and Commons, and by authority of the same, ratified
and confirmed accordingly." That is to say, the Act of Settlement is
not an Act of the two Houses only, but of the Crown also. If, there-
fore, we admit that the power to repeal is as complete as the authority
to enact, it surely follows that an enactment of the Crown and the
Houses of Parliament cannot be repealed except by the authority of
the Crown as well as of the two Houses of Parliament

So much for Mr. Bradlaugh's assertion that in a period of settled
Government the two Houses of Parliament can, without the assent of
the Crown, repeal the Act of Settlement, which was not the Act of a
Convention Parliament, but of a Parliament of King, Lords, and
Commons. Before leaving this subject, I will say a word about Mr.
Bradlaugh's reference to the United States. He writes : " In America
there is a written Constitution, and an Act of Congress may not only be
unconstitutional, but the judges may disregard it as unconstitutional"
The Supreme Court not only may, but is bound to disregard an un-
constitutional Act of Congress. The Fathers of the Republic would
not confer on the Executive, or on Congress, or on the Supreme
Court, authority to amend or alter the Constitution. That power is
reserved to the people. Mr. Bradlaugh will discover, by even a
cursory study of the English Constitution, that no power is conferred
upon the two Houses of Parliament to amend or alter the Constitution
any more than such a power is vested in the Congress of the United
States.

The Republican* Impeachment. 1 6 1

Let us now notice Mr. Bradlaugh's statement that " the Parliament
has full and uncontrollable authority to make any enactment and to
repeal any enactment heretofore made."

Be it observed that Mr. Bradlaugh does not mean the mere potential
power of Parliament, but the constitutional competence of Parlia-
ment. What I understand by constitutional competency is the
power to do anything that is not in violation of the Constitution ; for a
constitutional Parliament is not a constituent assembly, but the
creature, servant, and protector of the Constitution. Is Parliament
constitutionally competent to make or repeal any enactment ? In
his pamphlet Mr. Bradlaugh writes : — " The object of the present
essay is to submit reasons for the repeal of the Act of Settlement, so
far as the succession to the Throne is concerned.^ Why is a part only of
the Act to be repealed ? The Act of Settlement contains the follow-
ing clause : — " That after the said limitation shall take effect as afore-
said, judges' commissions be made quam diu se bene gesserint, and
their salaries ascertained and established, but upon the address of
both Houses of Parliament it may be lawful to remove them." Is
Parliament competent to repeal this clause, which is the guarantee of
the independence of the judges ? Or has Parliament the constitutional
authority to enact that it shall not be dissolved at the pleasure of the
Crown, and shall not be dissolved at the end of seven years by the
effluxion of time, but shall be a permanent assembly, filling up
vacancies as it chooses, without regard to the law or to the will of
the people? If a Parliament so acted would it not be the duty
of a constitutional Sovereign to call upon the people to refuse
obedience to the unconstitutional decree, and to defend their rights
and liberty ? The assertion of Mr. Bradlaugh is nonsensical. Par-
liament as well as the Sovereign is a creation of the law, and can only
act lawfully when it respects the Constitution of the country. Mr.
Bradlaugh says : " In Great Britain there is no written Constitution."
This is not true. Portions of our Constitution are non scripta, but
other parts of our Constitution — such as Magna Charta, the Bill of
Rights, the Act of Settlement, and the Habeas Corpus Act — are
written. But whether written or unwritten the Constitution is of equal
authority.

To discuss the potentiality of the Sovereign or of the two Houses
of Parliament or of Mr. Bradlaugh would be profitless. The
Sovereign might, with the support of an army or the people, tear the
Constitution in shreds and found a despotic Government The
two Houses of Parliament might, with the assent of the nation,
abolish the monarchy and set up 4a republic. If Her Majesty's

1 62 The Gentleman s Magazine.

subjects transferred their allegiance to Mr. Bradlaugh, he might
make himself dictator or emperor. But any such change would be
a revolution. Any act in violation of the Constitution is an uncon-
stitutional act. The constitutional competence of the two Houses
of Parliament is limited by the Constitution. A revolution may be
just and expedient, but in spite of its justice and expediency a revo-
lution is a revolution, and not a constitutional reform.

Mr. Bradlaugh's assertion as to the unlimited power of Parliament
is scandalously immoral. It is true that the Constitution does not
expressly limit the authority of Parliament, and, seeing that Parlia-
ment speaks and enacts as the representative of all the orders of
the community : that Parliament consists of Sovereign, Lords, and
People, and no wish of one part of Parliament is of any force
unless it is agreed to by the other part, it is impossible to limit
the authority of Parliament, just as it is impossible to limit by edict
the authority of the many if the many choose to put it forth. But it
is quite another affair to plead this necessarily unlimited authority as
a reason for repealing an Act. " Might makes right" is the ethics of
the tyrant — of the savage tyrant. " I wear trje sword and therefore I
slaughter those I hate " is the only answer that a King Theodore
gives when he is denounced for shedding innocent blood to gratify
his momentary spite or his passing whim. Now, in the mere potential
sense, the authority of the British Parliament is as unlimited as the
authority of a barbaric despot ; but Parliament is bound in honour
to respect the Constitution, to do justice to all men, and to be true
and honest in its acts; But observe that when Mr. Bradlaugh speaks
about Parliament, he does not mean the whole Parliament, he does
not mean Sovereign, Lords, and Commons, but only a part of Parlia-
ment. His words are: "The right to deal with the Throne is
inalienably vested in the English people, to be exercised by them
through their representatives in Parliament;" and in the same
paragraph he says: "The Parliament has full and incontestable
authority to make any enactment and to repeal any enactment here-
tofore made." The vocabulary of invective and vituperation has
been ransacked and exhausted to find opprobrious epithets for kings
who break the constitutional compact and trample on the rights of
the people. Let the king who abuses .his high trust be accursed,
for there is no worse political crime. But there is a political crime that
calls as loudly for execration. It is when a people, beguiled by the
false teaching of demagogues, violate the constitutional compact, and
trample on the constitutional rights of the Sovereign. Mr. Bradlaugh
says : " I can affirm that I never flatter the masses I address." This is a

The Republican Impeachment. 163

sounding and oft-repeated stump phrase. What Mr. Bradlaugh may
say to the masses I know not, but in his pamphlet he flatters the
people after the commonplace demagogue style by telling them that
they are supreme, and that they have a right to violate the constitu-
tional compact For nearly a century the French demagogues have
been repeating the same abominable flattery, and they have been
believed. What is the result ? After so many revolutions, anarchy
and not order reigns in France ; instead of a settled Government,
she has a Provisional Government ; and instead of political liberty
there is the tyranny of factions, the most oppressive of all tyrannies.
The voice of the people is the voice of authority, but its edicts are
neither blessed nor a blessing unless they are inspired by a love of
justice. God forbid that the devilish dogma, " Might makes right,"
should ever be an article of our political creed. God forbid that the
English people should ever forget that freedom cannot be divorced
from justice. Happily there is no sign of the free mother of free
nations being false to those sacred principles which have been her
sure guide in the days of trial, which have made her great and
glorious, and her fair land the home and the shrine of liberty.

But Mr. Bradlaugh puts forth reasons for what he ignorantly, or
impertinently presuming on the ignorance of his hearers, calls a
constitutional act, but which would be a revolution. The pleas for
repealing «the Act of Settlement and cutting off" the succession of the
Prince of Wales to the Throne are false in fact, bad in law, and gro-
tesquely irrelevant. Mr. Bradlaugh asserts that the Princes of the
House of Brunswick have been bad men, and that all the ills of
England since the revolution of 1688 have been the fault of the
Brunswick Sovereigns. Ergo, says Mr. Bradlaugh, let us prevent
the accession of the Prince of Wales on the demise of the reigning
Sovereign. Why Queen Victoria is to occupy the Throne until she
chooses to present her sceptre to Mr. Charles Bradlaugh, or dies, is
not explained.

With regard to personal character I submit that the private vices
of a king do not justify a political revolution. Charles I. was a
good husband and a good father, but a bad king, and deserved to
lose his crown. James II. was not a personally vicious man, yet the
revolution of 1688 was justifiable because he was a bad king. There
is no nobler lady living than Queen Victoria. Her conduct as a
daughter, as a wife, and as a mother endears her to nations that owe
her no allegiance. Not only is Victoria a good woman, but also a good
queen, for she is ever mindful of her duty to the State, and respects
the rights of her subjects. But if our beloved Queen were a bad

1 64 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Sovereign, her womanly virtues would not be a reason for permitting
her to violate the Constitution and to infringe our political rights.
Constitutional loyalty to the Throne is not inspired by the character
of the occupant. In countries where the ruler is a despot, personal
attachment is all important, but where the ruler is a constitutional
monarch the stability of the Throne does not depend upon the private
character of the wearer of the crown. It is of great moment that the
fierce light which, as the poet says, beats about the Throne should
show to the nation an example of exalted virtue ; but that is beside
the political question. So if Mr. Bradlaugh had proved that the
Princes of the House of Brunswick must needs be libertines, it would
by no means follow that we ought to oust the present reigning
family.

Mr. Bradlaugh strings together the evil stories which have been
told about the Georges, which he says he believes to be true. His
credulity is marvellous if he assumes that the Georges altogether
escaped calumny. In my article on the pamphlet I said that if all
the stories about the Georges are true, if they were the vilest of men,
and if bad private character were a reason for a change of dynasty,
still it would not be fair to visit the sins of his ancestors upon Albert
Edward Prince of Wales, and by way of illustration I wrote : "Suppose
that Mr. Bradlaugh's ancestors had been very abominable persons,
that would be no reason for punishing Mr. Bradlaugh, or fop declaring
him incompetent to hold a public office." This put Mr. Bradlaugh
hors de combat, and, writhing on the ground, he blurts out a confes-
sion of the unsoundness of his views, and very curtly repudiates the
leading argument of his pamphlet He thus writes: "But it is
asked, Ought the fact that George IV. was 'a very bad man' to be
urged as a ground for hindering the succession of Albert Edward to the
Throne? Certainly not !" Certainly not ! Then why does' Mr. Brad-
laugh devote the greater part of his pamphlet to the recital of the
vicious stories told of the Georges ? If they haye nothing to do
with the question, why are they repeated ? Was it to make the
pamphlet acceptable to the debased wretches who revel in stories of
profligacy? I will charitably assume that Mr. Bradlaugh thought
they were relevant to the issue until I gave the coup de grdcc.
Mr. Bradlaugh then proceeds : " But the fact that the four Georges
were all very bad kings, and that William IV. was not a good
one, ought not to be a ground for electing Albert* Edward to
the throne. *' This is tilting at a bogus windmill in pantomimic
fashion. I do not say that the Prince of Wales should be elected
to the Throne because his royal ancestors were bad. No one

The Republican Impeachment. t 65

says so, and Mr. Bradlaugh himself tells us that the Prince of
Wales is heir apparent to the Throne by virtue of the Act of Settle-
ment Then comes the most remarkable sentence that ever was
penned by a bewildered republican. Thus writes the advocate of
an English republic : " Let him (the Prince of Wales) be elected or
rejected on his own merits and qualifications for the kingly office."
So Mr. Bradlaugh approves of " an elective monarchy-republic " !
Is the Crown to be submitted to competitive examination ? May Mr.
Bradlaugh as well as Albert Edward be a candidate for the high office ?
Or is the Prince of Wales to be tried by judge and jury? Mr. Brad-
laugh has queer ideas of law and justice. Parliament is forthwith to
enact that, " The Throne shall be no longer filled by a member of the
House of Brunswick," but on the demise of the ,Crown Albert
Edward is to be elected or rejected on his merits. His Royal
Highness is to be first executed and afterwards tried. If Mr.
Bradlaugh could be as successful in assailing the Throne as he is in
demolishing his own arguments the Prince of Wales would never be
King of England.

I do not propose to follow Mr. Bradlaugh in his charges against
the government of the Georges, because whether they are true or false
they have no more to do with the question raised by Mr. Bradlaugh
than they have with a mathematical problem. Let us admit that
" one early act of George I. was to purchase for the sum of ^250,000
Bremen and Verdun." Let us admit "that George II. repeatedly
signed treaties pledging England to the payment of enormous sub-
sidies." Let us admit that George III. was responsible for the loss of
the American colonies. It would be easy enough to show that since
the revolution of 1688 the monarchs of England have not ruled
without the consent of Parliament, and that therefore some part of
the nation at least was conjointly responsible for the policy of
the King's Government But we will let that pass. We will, for
argument's sake, agree with Mr. Bradlaugh, that for all that has been
done amiss, for all the national ills we have suffered, our kings are
solely responsible. Our wars were their wars, and against our will
and welfare. The Great Rebellion was in vain ; and, though ship-
money was abolished, the House of Brunswick has, against our will,
burdened us with a debt of ^800,000,000. The Brunswick monarchs
have filled the butchers' shops with great blow-flies, and diseased
the potatoes. What then ? This is a world of weal and woe. If all
the woe is to be charged against our monarchs, we must perforce give
them credit for all our weal. If the King is held responsible for

the blight, he may justly claim our gratitude when the harvest is
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. n

1 66 The Gentleman s Magazine.

plenteous. Now what, I ask, is the condition of our Empire ? It is a
condition of unsurpassed greatness, glory, and prosperity* The
sceptre of England is acknowledged in the five quarters of the globe.
The standard of England is planted in Africa. We govern the West
Indies. The grim rock of Gibraltar is the stately monument of our
naval supremacy in Europe. We have ports in China. The vast
Dominion of Canada is affiliated to the British Crown. The
Australias, the last discovered world, the countries of unspeakable
riches, are our colonies. The Queen of England is also Empress of
India. Our language is the language of America and Australia. It
is in Africa the language of freedom to the negro, and in India the
language of command. Our ships crowd the pathways of the ocean,
and are seen in every port Our commerce is the wonder of the age.
Our wealth is beyond calculation. In science and in literature we
hold the foremost rank. We rejoice in the political liberty the
lovers of freedom in other ages and in other countries have vainly
sighed for, fought for, and died for. I say that it is under the
monarchy of the House of Brunswick that we have attained to this
supreme dominion, wealth, and honour. I do not say this unprece-
dented prosperity and this exceeding weight of national glory are due
to the wisdom and conduct of our kings. I hold that the monarchs
.)f the reigning house have effectively done the work they had to do—
for, by their occasional resistance to the popular demands, they have
prevented reform being hurried into revolution ; and our Queen is an
example to all constitutional monarchs. But it is to the blessing
of God, and to the wisdom and conduct of the nation — and
"the Nation" means the Lords as well as the people, and the
Sovereign as well as the Lords and people — that we must ascribe
the national might and majesty that the most ardent and sanguine
patriot could not have dreamed of in 1688. But I say that if we ate
so foolish as to charge the monarchy with our failings, it must also be
credited with' our triumphs. I say, as I have before said, that if the
House of Brunswick is to be judged by the condition of the Empire,
and if we compare it with what it was when the Act of Settlement
gave the Throne to the Protestant granddaughter of James I., and her
heirs, then, so far from denouncing the Act of Settlement, we find only
reasons for gladness that the Princes of Brunswick have been our kings.
Mr. Bradlaugh concludes his reply to my criticism with a para-
graph in which he virtually brands himself with monstrous and
graceless folly. He writes : —

I am only a plain, poor-born man, with the odium of heresy resting on me and
the weight of an unequal struggle in life burdening me as I move on. That I

The Republican Impeachment 167

*

have ambition to rise in the political strife around me, until I play some small part
in the legislative assembly of my country, is true. If I live, I will. .

So this person, who tells us that he is a plain (by which, I suppose,
he means uncultured), poor-born man (an un-English reflection on his
parentage), with the odium of heresy resting on him (a fact that it is
shameful for him to parade in a political discussion), and having an
unequal struggle in life burdening him (which, I presume, signifies that
Mr. Bradlaugh bemoans not being born to riches, and having to earn
his daily bread), this person is resolved that if he lives he will get
into Parliament ! And if any constituency elects Mr. Bradlaugh he
will be received at Westminster. Not lack of culture, nor humble
birth, nor poverty, nor heresy will prevent him from sitting in the
British Parliament In no Republic, past or existing, is completer
freedom to be found, and no Republic that may be devised can
confer upon its citizens greater liberty than Mr. Bradlaugh confesses
he enjoys as a British subject Yet he vilifies a Constitution, and
seeks to overthrow a settled order of government, that enables him
— a plain, poor-born man, with the odium of heresy resting on him,
and the weight of an unequal struggle in life burdening him — to
declare that he will, if he lives, sit in the Parliament of the greatest
empire of the world. Hereafter, when Mr. Bradlaugh assails the
monarchy, he should use only abuse and carefully eschew arguments
of which the premisses are false, the conclusions illogical, and by
which he is self-convicted of senseless ingratitude.

John Baker Hopkins.

n 2

A Garden in Surrey.*

F any of our classical readers should chance to have enter-
tained hitherto even the shadow of a shade of doubt as to
the real existence of Virgil's " Corycius Senex " in the flesh,
let him henceforth own that that shade is dispelled, for that at
Wallington, in the parish of Beddington, near Croydon, less than
fifteen miles from London, resides the venerable sage whom Virgil
has immortalised under that name, and he has lately written a book,
which, if it were only in poetry instead of prose, would easily pass
muster as a fifth Georgic, on Horticulture.

But Mr. Smee is not a poet ; he is a practical man ; he is well
known in the City of London as chief medical officer of the Bank of
England, and as the busiest of busy men in other matters of a com-
mercial, as well as of a scientific nature. He has found time, however,
— at the beginning and end of the day, we presume — to bring into
successful cultivation a small estate of which he is the owner, and
which, as he tells us in his preface, he regards in a twofold light ;
firstly, as " an experimental garden, designed to obtain information,"
and secondly, as " a practical garden, from which his residence in
town is supplied with vegetables, fruit, and flowers." The book
which he has lately published under the title of " My Garden," will
serve to justify this twofold " end and aim."

It appears from a perusal of the second chapter of the work before
us that when he entered upon his land at Beddington, what now is
Mr. Smee's garden was a peaty bog, across which he could not walk.
However, he at once set to work to remove the cause of offence by
taking in hand and fairly mastering the river which ran through it,
and which he regarded as an enemy that could be turned into a

friend ;

Multa* mole docendus aprico parcere prato.

He " lowered the central brook, made a second stream parallel
with the river, and another crossing the garden at right angles f
nor was he victorious on the waves alone : he conquered also the peat
and the sand ; studied the nature of the chalk soil of the district im-
mediately adjoining his property ; introduced a system of drainage

* My Garden : its Plan and Culture. By Alfred Smee, F.R.S. (London :

Bell and Daldy. 1872.)

A Garden in Surrey. 169

suitable to the locality and the purpose in hand ; and, by a judicious
management of soils and manures, and by other scientific applica-
tions, he "made the desert smile."

It does not fall within the scope of the present paper to give a detailed
account of the way in which, step by step, Mr. Smee overcame the
difficulties which nature placed in his way, and did for his garden on
the banks of the Wandle — the " blue transparent Vandalis " of Pope
— what the monks of old did for the once barren lands which by
their labour and skill blossomed into the fair demesnes of Glastonbury,
Beaulieu, and Tin tern. But the work of Mr. Smee is one which has,

KOMAN HOUSE AT BEDDINGTON.

and must ever have, a special interest for Svlvanus Urban and
his numerous readers, as embodying, inter alia, an admirably written
account of the topography of Carshalton, Beddington, and the
neighbourhood.

Flint instruments have been found, scattered over the district, in
sufficient quantities to show that the neighbourhood was inhabited
at a very early period. Equally distinct is the proof of Roman
occupancy ; and the discovery of a Roman house in situ, just at the
east of Beddington Park, with the ground plan of its chambers still
clearly distinguishable, could leave no room for doubt on the subject.
Near this building were found specimens of Roman pottery and coins
of the reigns of Commodus and Constantino, one at least of which
was struck at Colchester. It is well known, we may add, that the
Roman road known as Stane Street must have run through or near
Beddington, on its way from the South Coast to London, though no
actual traces of it remain at the present day ; and some antiquaries
hare not hesitated to place near the same locality the Roman town
Noviomagus — the site of which has been so long and so keenly

i7o

Tlie Gentleman s Magazine.

disputed among antiquaries. Passing on to the Anglo-Saxon period,
coins, arms, and other implements of that age appear to have been
found in sufficient quantities to justify the inference that Beddington
was not an unimportant place from the seventh to the tenth century,
as Mr. Smee states that several skeletons were found along with the

SHIELD.— ANGLO-SAXON PKEIOD.

above, and that they lay " with their heads towards the west." Since
this was the case, the inference is obvious that they were Christians
who were buried there. With them were found a Saxon silver penny
bearing the name of GSdelstan (Ethebtan), and also a bronze bracelet,
both of which we are able to reproduce here by the kind permission
of Mr. Smee.

SAXON silykb mnrr.

The history of Beddington, from the middle ages down to the
recent extinction of the Carews, who were long its owners, as re-
corded by Mr. Smee, is so full of interest that we have ventured to
draw largely upon his pages for the brief summary of its annals
which we here lay before our readers.

It appears that in Doomsday Book Beddington comprised two
manors, one of which was held by Robert de Watville from Richard
de Tonbridge, and by his successors immediately from the King, by
the service of rendering to the Sovereign every year a single wooden
crossbow. At this time there were in Beddington two mills and a

A Garden in Surrey.

171

parish church ; but the manor, in the reign of Richard L, had passed
into the hands of a family named De Es or De Eys. In a.d. 1205,
on the extinction of this family, the manor reverted to the King. It
would be tedious and useless to mention the names of the families to

r CABSHAiTON.

whom from time to time the manor was granted prior to the reign of
Edward III-, when it passed, by an arrangement, from the Willough-
bies to the De Camies, or, as they afterwards styled themselves,
Carews. This knightly and noble family — if we may believe the

1 72 The Gentleman's Magazine.

heralds and genealogists— were descended from one Otho, who came
over with the Conqueror, and obtained a grant of Carew Castle, in
Pembrokeshire, and they bore for their arms, " Or, three lions passant
in pale sable." TheCarews can boast that they produced some distin-
guished sons, among whom was Giraldus Cambrensis, the celebrated
historian. Sir Nicholas Carew, the first actual owner of Beddington
who bore that name, was a man of note in the reign of the third
Edward, under whom he served as a Knight of the Shire and Keeper
of the Privy Seal, and of whose will he became executor. The manor
of Beddington remained vested in the hands of the Carews till the
reign of Henry VIII., when its holder, another Sir Nicholas, the
" Lieutenant of Calais, Master of the Horse, and a Knight of the
Garter," having incurred the displeasure of that arbitrary monarch,
was attainted and executed on Tower Hill, his broad lands being
seized by the King, who took up his residence at Beddington, and

held a Council there. He even went a step further, and granted
the manor to the proud D'Arcyes of Chiche, to whom Sir Francis
Carew was glad to pay a round sum of money, in order " to make
assurance doubly sure," upon obtaining restitution of Beddington from -
Queen Mary, in whose service he had risen to favour and influence.
It was this Sir Francis who rebuilt the mansion of Beddington Park,
the great hall of which now alone remains standing, according to Mr.
Smee, who adds that the great door of its hall has a curious and
ancient lock, very richly wrought, the key-hole of which is concealed
by a shield bearing the arms of England in the Tudor times. Queen
Elizabeth honoured Sir Francis with her presence at Beddington in
August, 1599, when she spent three days at his mansion and held
her Court ; and again in the August of the following year.

The following quaint account, which Mr. Smee quotes from Sir
Hugh Piatt's " Garden of Eden," is strictly in keeping with the plan
of his book, and it serves, moreover, to show what pains were taken
to keep back cherries, the favourite fruit of Queen Elizabeth, for the
table of that Queen : —

Here I wall conclude with a conceit of that delicate knight, Sir FrancU Carew,

A Garden in Surrey.

J 73

who, for the better accomplishment of his royal entertainment of our late Qaeen
of happy memory at his house at Beddington, led Her Majesty to a cherry-tree,
whose fruit he had of pfcrpose kept back from ripening at the least one month after
all other cherries had taken their farewell of England. This secret he performed
by straining a tent or cover of canvas over the whole tree, and wetting the same

now and then with a scoop or horn, as the heat of the weather required ; and so,
by withholding the sun-beams from reflecting upon the berries, they both grew
great, and were very long before they had gotten their cherry colour ; and, when
he was assured of Her Majesty's coming, he removed the tent, when a few sunny
days brought them to their full maturity.

1 74 The Getttlemaris Magazine.

It is almost needless to add that this Sir Francis appears to have
been not only a clever and cunning courtier, but also an excellent
horticulturist, and to have forestalled at Beddington much of the
work which Mr. Smee has carried out two centuries later in his
garden atWallington; and it is interesting to be reminded by our
author that it was he to whom we owe the first introduction into this
country and cultivation of orange-trees, which are supposed to have
been brought to England at his suggestion by Sir Walter Raleigh,
who was married to the niece of the Beddington squire. If this be
really so, we ought all to feel very grateful to Sir Francis Carew, and
none of us more so than the orange merchants of Covent-garden,
large and small.

To show that Mr. Smee is not speaking at random when he
praises the horticultural skill of Sir Francis Carew, let us here put on

SHDDIHGTOM CHURCH.

record the following account of the orangery at Beddington, taken
by him from the twelfth volume of his "Archaeologia."

Beddington Gardens, at present (1796) in the hands of the Duke of Norfolk,
but belonging to the family of Carew, has in it the best orangery in
England, The orange and lemon-trees there grow in the ground, and hare done
so for nearly a hundred years, as the gardener, an aged man, said that he
believed. There are a great number of them, the house wherein they are being
above two hundred feet long ; they are most of them thirteen feet high, and very
full of fruit, the gardener not having taken off them so many flowers this year
{1796) as usually do others. He said that he gathered off them at least ten
thousand oranges this last year. The heir of the family being now but about £tc
years of age, the trustees take care of the orangery, and this year they built a new
house over them. There are some myrtles growing among them, but they look
not well for want of trimming. The rest of the garden is all out of order, the
orangery being the gardener's chief care, but it is capable of being made one of
the best gardens in England, the soil being very agreeable, and a clear silver
stream running through it.

Mr. Smee, we think, might fairly claim even greater credit for his
work at Wallington, for there he had to contend with a soil which at
first was anything but " very agreeable," so that his results, great and

A Garden in Surrey. 1 75

■mall, have been accomplished in the face of difficulties with which
the lords of Beddington never had to contend.
For the remaining history of the Care w family and of their mansion

at Beddington, we are largely indebted to Mr. Smee's researches.
He tells us that Sir Francis, that " grand old gardener " and courtier in
one, died a bachelor in May, r6n, at the venerable age of eighty-one,
leaving his estates to his nephew, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, who

1 76 The Gentleman's Magazine.

took the name and arms of Carew on inheriting Beddington. It was
in the time of this Sir Nicholas that Sir Walter Raleigh was beheaded,
and it was to him that Sir Walter's widow, his sister, addressed a request
to the effect that he might be buried in Beddington Church. It does
not appear from history, nor does Mr. Smee inform us, whether this
request w«as refused or subsequently withdrawn by Sir Walter's widow ;
but, at all events, Sir Walter Raleigh was buried in St Margaret's
Church, Westminster, while his head, after being cut off by the axe
of the executioner, was sent to his son at West Horseley, in Surrey,
where it was interred. The letter itself, as given by Mr. Smee, is
well worth preserving, and accordingly we reproduce it here : —

To my best Bfrother], Sirr Nicholes Carew, at Beddington. — I desair, good
brother, that you will be pleased to let me berri the worthi boddi of my nobell
hosbar, Sirr Walter Ralegh, in your chorche at Beddington — wher I desair to be
berred. The lordes have given me his ded boddi, though they denyed me his
life. This nit hee shall be brought you with two or three of my men. Let me
her (hear) presently. E. R. God holde me in my wites.

The lands at Beddington remained in the hands of the Carews till
the year 1791, when Sir Nicholas H. Carew, Bart, (whose father had
been raised to that title in 1715) left them to his only daughter for
life, and then, at her death, to the eldest son of Dr. John Fountain,
Dean of York ; and if he had no son (which in the event proved to
be the case), then he entailed them, by his will, on the eldest son of
Richard Gee, Esq., of Orpington, in Kent, who took the name and
arms of Carew by Royal license, his grandmother having been
born a Carew. On his dying a bachelor in 181 6, he bequeathed
Beddington to the widow of his brother William, Mrs. Anne Paston
Gee, and she again, at her death, in 1828, devised the estate to
Admiral Sir Benjamin Hallowell, who thereon took the name of
Carew. His son, Captain Carew, some twenty years ago, sold the
estate, with its mansion, orangeries, park, and deer. The rest of the
story may be briefly told. The proud Hall of Beddington, where
Queen Elizabeth and her Court were once entertained, is now a
public institution ; and the old stock of the Carews, in spite of having
been bolstered up by entails and adoptions of the name by descendants
in the female line, passed away last year, when the last bearer of the
name died, homeless and landless, in one of the lesser streets pf
London. Such are, indeed, the " vicissitudes of families."

We must leave Mr. Smee to tell our readers the history of Bed-
dington parish church, its tower, nave, and aisles, its mortuary chapel,
its brasses and other monuments, and its recent restoration under the

A Garden in Surrey. 177

present rector. It contains, we will only state here, many monu-
ments of the Carews, which will serve to keep alive the memory of
that antique family when the present generation shall have 'passed
awayv The cut representing a distant view of Beddington Church
as seen across the park from Mr. Smee's garden is kindly lent to us
by the author.

The neighbourhood of Beddington and Wallington is very richly
timbered, though many fine trees have been cruelly and needlessly
cut down. One tree of historic interest, for two centuries known
among the villagers as Queen Elizabeth's Oak, and which bore some
resemblance to Heme's Oak in Windsor Park, as Mr. Smee tells us,
was " ruthlessly removed a few years since to make way for an ugly
new watercourse, and carried to a timber yard in Croydon." It is not
difficult to imagine its fate. But its memory ought to be preserved ;
and we reproduce an interesting outline of it

QUEEN ELIZABETH'S OAK.

It only remains to add that Mr. Smee's handsome and agreeable
volume is adorned with several hundreds of exquisite wood engra-
vings, large and small, illustrative of the subjects of which he treats —
subjects nearly as many and manifold as were discoursed of by the
Jewish King of old, who spake of all trees, " from the cedar to the
hyssop on the wall." These illustrations, several specimens of which
we have been allowed to transfer to our own pages, range over
every possible subject in any way connected with a garden, even
down to the minutest of shells, aphides, and fungi, and, shall we say
the tiny friends or enemies of the horticulturist ? — birds and worms.

1 78 The Gentleman s Magazine.

For much of the contents and of the ornamentation of his volume, Mr.
Smee, we observe, is indebted to the skill and industry of his accom-
plished daughter ; and the majority of the botanical drawings have
been made and engraved by Mr. Worthington Smith, the fungologist,
while the geological map of the district in which the author's modern
Eden stands, has been supplied from the Ordnance Survey Office by

Sir Henry James.

E. Walford, M.A.

Plantagenet's Well;

A True Story of the Days of Richard the Third.

BY LADY C. HOWARD.

Around the hall were martial shields,

Which baron bold and knights of yore
Had borne in murderous battle-fields —

Where prince and peasant fell before
The well-aimed blow and hurtled spear.

M. S.

The green trees whispered low and wild —

It was a sound of joy !
They were my playmates when a child,
And rocked me in their arms so wild !
And still they looked at me and smiled

As if I were a boy.

Prelude— Longfellow.

T was the close of a day in early summer. The last
rays of the setting sun made the forest trees shine like
burnished gold, reflecting them in the depths of still,
calm pools, which here and there diversified the scene.
Groups of sheep and herds of deer were browsing on the short
velvet grass, making, with the sweet notes of forest birds and the
ever busy hum of insects, a perfect picture of happy, peaceful English
life.

Two people were walking through the sunny forest glades : judging
from his dress, one was a priest, the other a boy of some fourteen
summers.

The priest was a man of about fifty-five, tall, and rather inclined

to embonpoint. He had earnest grey eyes, hair of snowy whiteness,

a Roman nose, rather a weak expression about his mouth, and a broad,

intellectual forehead.

A more benevolent looking man was perhaps never seen, and his

1 80 The Gentleman's Magazine.

character was fully carried out by his deeds. He was a good, kind .
friend to the poor ; none who sought his aid ever went away with
their griefs unlightened, if it was in his power to assuage them,
and if it was not, his poorer neighbours took the will for the deed, and
returned home comforted. Every one, and with reason, blessed the
good Padre, or Father John, as the people, usually called him.
Casual observers might have taken him for the father of the
fine boy, whose hand was so confidingly placed in his. He was,
however, only his sincere friend, guardian, and preceptor. , The
boy himself was in appearance slight and tall. He had a frank,
open countenance, deep blue eyes which looked at you fearlessly, a
very straight nose, a complexion sunburnt from exposure to all
weathers, and a mouth and chin whose expression showed an amount
of firmness and perseverance rarely seen in one so young: Very
small feet, and white, strong hands, gave evidence of gentle, perhaps
noble birth. As the two sauntered along, they were engaged in a
conversation which seemed deeply interesting to both master and
pupil, and well it might be, as the subject under their notice was
none other than Homer.

As they discussed the glorious poetry of the grand old bard,
and Father John told his young pupil of the brave deeds of
the warriors there described, the boy's eyes sparkled and his
cheeks flushed, and, clasping his hands, he eagerly exclaimed,
"Oh! that I may live to be a man, then will I be a soldier, and by
God's grace will strive to imitate these glorious deeds."

" Yes, Richard," said the kind priest, smiling at his companion's
boyish enthusiasm, " so you shall ; and meantime, by much study
during these precious years of your boyhood, and many deeds of
charity, making your poorer neighbours' woes your own, you will
earn a crown of immortal glory, better, far better, than all the perish-
able ones of this world."

In conversations such as this did the good Father strive to sow
in his young charge's mind the seeds of good deeds, of acts which
should make his name blessed in many an humble abode, looked up
to and reverenced even as his own was, and the boy gave promise
of repaying his guardian for all his trouble and unceasing care.
So conversing, the two came to a large rambling old house, situated
in the heart of the forest It consisted of two wings — one entirely
covered with ivy, which clung to its grey, time-stained walls,
twining itself in and out of the quaint casements, making the
home of many a . sparrow and starling, which, in return for the
shelter afforded them, sang a never ending hymn of joy and

Plantagenefs Well. 181

praise. Jn the lovers' " Language of Flowers," ivy means " True
Friendship." Its powers of constancy are beautifully described
in the following lines of Bernard Barton, addressed to Mrs.
Hemans : —

It changes not as seasons flow

In changeful, silent course along,
Spring finds it verdant, leaves it so,

It outlives Summer's song;
Autumn no wan nor russet stain

Upon its fadeless glory flings,
And Winter o'er it sweeps in vain

With tempest on his wings.

The other side of the house was built of grey stone, and ended
with a square-built tower, where, at certain hours, the curfew rang,
bidding all to put out their fires and lights. A. characteristic old
porch, with a door curiously studded with steel nails, opened into
a moderate-sized hall, strewn with rushes, and with a fire o£ huge
logs of wood shedding a warm glow over everything.

High backed chairs, the legs of carved wood, and the seats of
crimson leather, were placed round the hall, in the centre of which
stood an immense oaken table. Trophies of the chase adorned the
walls, stags' heads, with noble antlers ; spears, and banners, and other
implements of use and war were scattered about.

It was the ioth day of June, in the year of grace 1481. Here, in
this lonely forest retreat, Richard had spent all his life, as far as he
could remember, with no companion but Father John, ignorant
whose son he was, or even if his parents were living. Richard was
the only name by which he knew himself.

His leisure hours were spent in the forest in summer, and in
reading — curled up in the deep seats of the windows in the old hall,
when the weather was too severe for him to go out It was a
happy life, free from care and sorrow.

His little room opened into Father John's, and his in turn into the
JialL None of the numerous other rooms in the house were ever
used, except the kitchen and a tiny room where the one servant
of the establishment, old Allan, slept and grumbled. He was a quaint
old man, in keeping with the house and furniture. He had a hooked
nose, like a parrot's, small black eyes, set very near together, which
made him look as if he could read every thought in your mind, and
grey hair, which hung in locks down his back from under a velvet
cap. He was very active, in spite of his seventy years, and really
willing, but he had a tongue like the clapper of a bell.

Such were Richard's companions and life at the age of fourteen.
Vol, X., N.S. 1873. o

1 82 The Gentleman* s Magazine.

Money was supplied to the house from time to time by a stranger
who paid them short visits. The days passed on swiftly and quietly
until the October following the day when this tale begins. It was
early in the month, but the trees were changing fast; every day
seemed to deepen and alter the beauty of their tints. The leaves
as they fell lay rotting in heaps, making a melancholy picture. One
day the stranger came and took Richard away with him. After going
through many miles of country, and stopping frequently to rest, they
came at last to a very large city with hundreds of houses, thousands
of men, women, and children thronging the streets, and where the
noise and tumult seemed to bewilder Richard. Presently they
stopped at a large house, like a palace, and the stranger led the
boy into a lofty hall, where state and splendour seemed to reign.
Passing through the hall, they came to a range of rooms, each more
magnificent than the last, with sculptured arches, painted roofs,
matchless tapestry adorning the walls, the floor carpeted with rashes,
in marked contrast to the splendour of the rest of the place. At
last Richard's guide left him, and he remained alone in a state of
suspense and fear, although he did not know of what he was
afraid.

Presently, to his astonishment, a man of noble mien appeared;
his commanding form and stately bearing awed Richard, as he
advanced towards him, fixing his penetrating eyes upon his nice.
His vest was studded with thick ribs of gold, a purple velvet robe
hung in folds around him, royal jewels glittered on his breast, with
the Order of the Garter prominent among them, and on his head a
crimson velvet cap, richly bordered with ermine, and with a white
feather, kept in its place by a brooch of diamonds. Richard tried
to bend his knee to him, but his limbs refused their office ; so he
stood there, quiet and still, but with a sort of doubtful joy in his
heart. Seeing Richard's fear, the great man strove to mitigate
the harshness of his brow, and with kind speeches cheered
his aching heart. He questioned Richard closely on his manner of
life, what his occupations and amusements were, and stroked his
sunny curls.

Yet while he talked he seemed to be always keeping something
back ; his looks implied much more than his speeches said. Then he
gave Richard an embroidered purse, heavily filled with gold, and
kindly pressed his hand. For some time did they stand thus, die
man of noble mien looking deeply into Richard's face, his bosom
swelling with emotion, as though he wished to speak ; but suddenly
he started, frowned, and abruptly left the room.

Plantagenet's Well. 183

1

Richard's guide returned, and found him dazed and startled by the
interview. They got on their horses again, and began their home-
ward journey.

Richard's guide seemed a mild, kind man, so he thought he would
unburden his mind, and ask him a few questions.

" Oh, sir," said Richard, " tell me, I pray you, why you show such
care for me, why you employ your time in my behalf. And tell me
who is that man of pride and dignity who deigns to notice a stranger
boy."

Richard's question confused his guide, but he did not seem dis-
pleased; but he told him nothing, though he seemed to know
much ; he said :

"Youth, you owe me no obligation ; I only do my duty ; you have
no kindred blood with mine ; but, hard to say, your birth must to
you still Temain a secret. Ask no more."

Thus he reproved Richard, doing it, however, as if he pitied
him; so Richard bowed to his mild rebuke, and promised obedience.

Arrived at the old hall, he consigned Richard to his faithful guar-
dian's care, and, blessing him by the Holy Cross, departed.

After he was gone Richard's heart waxed sad ; he felt as if he
had sustained some heavy loss ; but in the company of Father John
all tumultuous thoughts gave way, his looks and words alike softened
sorrow. Unruly care was far distant from him. Griefs wildest ravings
ceased in his presence, and in his blameless life well did he prove
" That the House of Goodness is the House of Peace."

Here for some months Richard's life flowed on evenly, quietly,
with nothing to mark the days. By degrees he began to feel
that perhaps it was well for him that he was ignorant of the secret of
his birth, and to see that he had better not try to find out that which
late appeared to wish concealed.

But soon things were altered ; his visionary hopes passed away,
leaving a future dark and drear. As in March the sunshine seems
to give promise of a fine day, but, with that treachery which
belongs to the time, as the day wears on the sun disappears, leaving
everything damp and gloomy — this was the case with Richard's

One day his guide arrived not as of late, quiet and calm, but he

seemed possessed with a wild impatience; care and thought were

written in his face.

" Rise, youth," said he to Richard, "and mount this steed."

Richard did as he was told, and bidding farewell to Father

John, mounted the horse which was standing, richly caparisoned,,

o 2

1 84 The Gentlernarls Magazine.

at the door. They rode on in silence at the utmost speed, and,
only remaining a few moments for rest and food, kept on until
their panting coursers brought them to Bosworth, in Leicestershire.

Here they stopped, but did not dismount Richard gazed around
him with astonishment, and his heart began to beat fast. Far
as the eye could see stretched a wilderness of tents, with banners
floating in the air, prancing steeds all around, and archers trimly
dressed. The sun was just setting in a cloud of burnished gold,
tipping the points of the spears everywhere to be seen until they shone
like fire. The hum of many voices resounded on the evening air,
and sounds of music from time to time came floating down the
breeze.

Twilight crept on swiftly ; the chieftains were all in their tents, and
sentinels were posted around. Richard and his guide moved on
towards the tents with wary pace, and dismounting, befriended by the
stars, which shone with a bright light, they walked quickly on, answer-
ing the challenge of the sentinels, until they came on a martial form
who barred their further progress.

He seemed to be listening, his face muffled in his cloak. Suddenly
throwing it back, he snatched Richard's hand, and, leading him with
swift steps, never slackened his pace until he came to a splendid
tent. The pavilion was hung with glowing crimson, the shade
deepened by the light of many tapers. A royal couch was in the
centre, and beside it lay a polished suit of armour, bright and ready
for its owner's use.

The crown was there glittering in the light with many splendid
gems gracing it, and close by, as though to guard its safety and
dignity, lay a weighty " curtelax " unsheathed. The chief took off his
cap, and drew Richard to him. Wrapt in gloom, his face appeared
like a clouded sky ere the tempest bursts. Revenge, impatience — all
that maddens the soul — despair and frenzy, were revealed in his face^
and his eyes shone like burning coals.

Richard felt that there was a likeness between this martial form
and the man of noble mien whom he had seen the last time his guide
had fetched him. Richard's companion tried to control his emotion ;
he seemed to be fighting with himself — holding himself proudly.
Richard stood, pale and trembling, like an attentive priest who
awaits the revelations of the mystic oak. At length his com-
panion spoke.

"No longer wonder, O youth," said he, "why you are brought
here ; the secret of your birth shall now be revealed. Know Chat
you are Imperial Richard's son ! I who hold you in these arms am

Plantagcnet's Well. 185

thy father, and as soon as my power has quenched these alarms
you shall be known, be honoured, and be great ! To-morrow, boy, I
combat for my crown. Presumptuous Richmond seeks to win renown,
and on my ruin raise his upstart name. He leads a renegade band,
strangers to war, and against the chieftains of the land means to try
his strength. But as even kings cannot command the chance of war,
to-morrow's sun will behold me conqueror or will see me among the
dead ; for Richard will never grace the victor's car, but glorious win
the day, or glorious die ! But you, my son, hear me, and obey my
word. Do not seek to mingle in the coming fray; but, far from
winged shaft and gleaming sword, wait in patience the decision of
the fight North of the camp there is a rising mound ; your guide
is ready to take you there. From there you can see every chance
and movement of the battle. If righteous fate give me the conquest,
then shall your noble birth be known to all. Then you may boldly
come to the centre of the field, and amidst my chieftains I will own
my son. But if I am robbed of empire and renown, then you may
be sure your father's eyes will be closed in eternal night, for life
without victory were dishonour and disgrace. Should proud Rich-
mond gain the day, which Heaven forfend, then no means will be
left you but instant, speedy flight ; you must veil your head and seek
concealment For on' Richard's friends, far more than on his son,
Richard's foes will wreak their vengeance, rage, and fear, even when
Richard himself shall be no more. So, go, my son ; one more em-
brace, and Heaven keep you ; some short reflections claim this
awful night before a glimmering in the east heralds the approach of
day, when my knights attend to arm me for the fight"

Once more Richard knelt, and his father blessed him ; then, strug-
gling to check a rising tear, he led him forth overwhelmed with
grief.

This was on Sunday evening, August the 21st, in the year of
grace 1485. The morning of Monday, the 22nd, rose dark and
gloomy, a fitting emblem of what was to follow. The two armies
were so near each other that during the night many deserted Richard
and joined Richmond's army. When the day broke the forces were
drawn up in line of battle. The fray began, but no vigour was
displayed in the Royal army until Lord Stanley suddenly turned
and attacked it in flank; then Richard saw that all was lost, and
exclaiming, "Treason! Treason! Treason !" rushed into the midst of
the enemy, and made his way to the Earl of Richmond, hewing down
all before him.

The King's valour was astonishingly great The Earl of Richmond

1 86 The Gentleman s Magazine.

rather shrank back at the sight of such a desperate antagonist, but
his attendants gathered round him, and at last Richard, who fought
like a wild beast, with the energy and courage of despair, over-
powered by sheer force of numbers, fell coyered with wounds. His
helmet was so beaten in by blows that its form was quite destroyed.
He fell near a brook which runs through Bosworth Field, the water
of which long remained stained with blood.

Thus died Richard the Third.

The battle only lasted two hours. Young Richard witnessed his
father's sad fate from the mound, and a great desire came over him
for one last look at his parent But remembering his father's wishes
with respect to him in the event of the battie going in Richmond's
favour, with a deep sigh, and feeling stunned and bewildered with
the revelations of the night before and the sad events of the day, he
turned away, and with one last look at the place where his father
lay, departed. After a long, weary journey he found himself in
the heart of the forest, at the door of the old house, where all his
happy childhood had been spent, and as the thought came into his
mind that good Father John still remained to him, he felt almost
comforted. But Richard was doomed to disappointment.

Going into the old hall, he saw Father John, as he thought,
asleep in his chair, but going up to him found, to his intense sorrow,
that the good old man had passed away to that God whose precepts
he had so well inculcated in the mind of his young pupil, whose
commandments he had so religiously kept, whose word he had so
loved to obey.

Richard's grief was very deep at being deprived in a few short
hours of his father, whom he had only found to lose for ever, and of
the kind old man who had been a father to him in every sense of the
word. After paying, in company with old Allan, the last sad respects
to his loved preceptor, Richard quitted the old house in the forest
for ever, with a sincere prayer that the God of the fatherless would
lead him to some safe retreat, where daily toil might give him bread
and teach him true peace.

For days he wandered on, until at last one evening he came to
Eastwell Park, in Kent Its owner was Sir Thomas Moyle, a benevo-
lent man, to whom he applied for employment, which was given
him, and as chief bricklayer he lived for many years in Sir Thomas's
service.

In 1546 Sir Thomas gave him a piece of ground, with permission
to build himself a house thereon. This he accordingly did. One
day Sir Thomas came upon him, sitting by the side of a well,

Plantagenet9 s Well. 187

reading'; he took the book from him, and was surprised to see it
was written in Latin, and that " Richard Plantagenet" was inscribed
on the fly leaf.

Sir Thomas said, " I see my suspicions were well founded. All
my doubts are now removed. You ought to hold a far higher posi-
tion than that which you now occupy; you ought not to be
clothed in tl^is poor manner, and occupy a dependent's place.
Drudgery and toil were not your position; need only could have
brought you to this, not your birth or blood. I see I am right I
read the answer in your blushing cheek, in your downcast eye ; you
need not have resort to speech. Often have I seen you when you
thought yourself alone, when the evening bell summoned the work-
men from their tasks. You avoided your unlearned comrades, and
with slow step and musing eye betook yourself to some quiet favourite
nook. Your attention seemed to rove; you appeared lost to all
outward sounds ; and if any one came by, instantly your book was
hidden, for fear some one should descry the subject of your medita-
tions. Often have I thought Greek and Roman page were no sealed
letters to you. Much have I wished to know your history, but now
no longer keep your story in painful secresy, but tell with simple
truth, not to your master, but to your friend, the story of your youth ;
for you are getting on in life ; it is time your labours ceased ; here
you shall find rest and a quiet home, with every comfort in my power
to give to endear it to you. Have you a wish, a hope, a higher bliss
in my power to bestow ? Is there in your breast any aching void ?
Tell me all your longings, so that I may supply them. In return,
all I ask is your history — confide that to me."

So spoke Sir Thomas Moyle ; and at his sympathetic words
Richard raised his drooping head, and, with a grateful glance at his
benefactor, began his sad tale. Sir Thomas listened with deep atten-
tion, and at the close, shaking the old man's hand kindly, he left him
to repose.

In his [comfortable house Richard Plantagenet lived some years
after this discovery, dying at the ripe old age of eighty-one, in the
fourth year of Edward the Sixth's reign, and he was buried in the
parish church of Eastwell, in Kent, the seat of the present Earl of
Winchilsea and Nottingham, on the 22nd of December, 1550.

The record of his burial is still to be found in the old register of
Eastwell Church, as follows : —

" Richard Plantagenet buried the 22nd daye of December,

1550."

1 88 The Gentleman s Magazine.

To the transcript of the register is subjoined — " It is observable
that in the old register there is prefixed to the name of every person

of noble blood such a mark as this

At the name of Richard Plantagenet there is the same mark (and it
is the first that is so distinguished), only with this difference, that there

is a line running across it thus

Richard Plantagenet's tomb, in the wall of Eastwell Church, still
exists, but it appears to be of a much later date. There is remaining
in existence in Eastwell Park the ruin of a dwelling said to have
been his house, and a dried-up well near it, which to this day is
called " Plantagenefs Well." There Sir Thomas Moyle found him
and heard his strange eventful history.

The Connaught Man.

'M de rale ould Connaught man,

De son av de Shan Van Vocht,
Born wid a screech av laughter

On de top of a travellin' show
In de year Anni Domino.

Dey rared me wid proper pride

On de milk av a piebald mule ;
Till de Shan, says she (alludin' to me),

" Let's be sendin' dat child to school,

Or he'll die an ign'rant fool."

So I wint, and in six months' time,

Wid de help av a quarry av slate,
And a flock av hins for making pins,

Ivery scholar at all I'd bate

In classical knowledge complate.

" Now it's time ye should choose yer profession,"

Wan mornin' remarked de Shan ;
" So I'll have ye put in de mounted fut

On board a Wesht-Indian man —

It's de only sinsible plan."

Den a rovhV life I lid,

Crusadin' de ocean blue
Wid Caizar and Hannibal and dat long-legged cannibal-

De comical Chinese Jew,

And de rist av our gallant crew.

But I'll only attimpt for to tell

Av our grandest advinture av all,
Whin we chanced to meet wid de Channel Fleet

On de top av de Chinese wall,

In de middle av a murtherin' squall.

Siven bells were piped by de watch

As we luffed on de larboard tack,
Whin de Chinese Jew through his telescope cried,

" Dey're flyin' de Union Jack,

Brace ivery binnacle back."

1 90 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

" Now clare de decks," says he,
" For I'm goin' to take command ;

For I know by heart ivery mortial part
Av my native say and land,
And de sky on ayther hand — .

" We've tin rigimints av horse
Chewin' de cud below,

And a park of artillery bould
Away up aloft, I know,
Impatient to spake to de foe.

" You, Hannibal, take to de wather
Wid a big battalion av horse !

And let Julius Caizar climb de shrouds
To command de artillery force.
I'll remain in my cabin av coorse ;

" For I hear it beginnin' to tunder,
And de lightnin, '11 soon commince,

And de rain in me eyes it vaaries in size
From a shillin' to eighteen pince,
Divle de laste pritince."

So into de wather, intint upon slaugther,
Bould Hannibal led de Huzzars,

And Julius Caizar saluted de foe
Wid sizeable shrapnel bars,
From his post on de mizin spars :

Till de mist clared slowly off;
And what do ye tink we found ?

Why sure dat de say had run away
And lift us upon dthry ground,
Wid de inimy scatthered around.

And a finer sight nor dat —
For, strokin' his charger's neck,

And wavin' his hat, bould Hannibal sat
On deir Lord High Admiral's deck,
And dat same a beautiful wreck.

The Connaught Man. 191

And whin we politely axed

That Lord High Admiral if he
Would lay his fleet at the confluerin' feet

Of our good ship " Anna Liflfey,"

He did it, bedad, in a jiffey.

But wan tires in coorse av time

Av such scenes av sorraful strife ;
So wid lashins av pinsion and hon'rable miotion

I widdrew into private life,

A Caylebs in search av a wife.

So all you rich young maids,

And widdies wid iligant farms,
Since I've freely tould what a haro bould

I'm proved by my deeds av arms,

Listen now to my paicable charms t

First I wakes meself up in de mornin'

Wid a cannon I brought from de East;
Den I kills half a cow for my break'ast,

Before milkin' de rest of de baste,

Lest de crayther should go to waste.

Next I washes de nourishment down

Wid spring wather mixed wid potheen,
Thin I sits my cabin on fire,

To ridden me ould dudheen,

But no matther — de thatch is green.

And dere isn't a weddin' at all,

A funeral or a fair,
Or any sort of fun and sport,

But me and de shtick is dere,

Impatient to have our share.

So all you heiresses dear,

For I've thought of de purtiest plan,
Come in sixes and sivens, and tins and ilivens

To your darlin' ould Connaught man,

And he'll marry yez all if he can.

Alfred Perceval Graves.

On Horseback.

BY A LADY.

IDING ! What pages, nay, what volumes, have been
written on the subject of that most delightful and in-
vigorating of all modes of exercise, and with what result?
One would suppose from the theories propounded, and
from the number of persons of both sexes who have been induced,
simply by reading articles treating of the horse and his rider, to try
their skill in the noble art of horsemanship, that there was nothing
left that could be said, and no further advice that could be offered,
either to those who wish to learn, or to others who have already
" graduated." But it is one thing to read, and quite another to
understand and profit by what is read — to mark, learn, and inwardly
digest the thoughts and meaning of the writer as conveyed by his
words ; and this more especially applies to all that has ever been
written in regard to riding.

Practical experience has proved to me the difficulty of making
pupils comprehend, in the spirit, simple instructions, even when they
profess to understand the meaning of any technical expression made
use of; and unless you can succeed in that respect the chances are
very much against any satisfactory result being gained by the lessons
given.

My remarks are intended to apply almost exclusively to the female
sex, and I venture to assert that there is no more charming sight
than a graceful woman sitting her horse with ease and confidence ;
but a really good horsewoman, in the fullest acceptation of the term, is
rare to find. I make this assertion with all due deference to the
numbers who ride, and who ride well in the eyes of the multitude
who are not over critical ; but there is not one woman in fifty who
knows what she is about ; and it is not always the riders' own fault
that they are so ignorant, it is chiefly the consequence of bad
teaching. No man, and still less a woman, can expect to ride well
unless he begins very young, and a girl has less chance than a
boy of learning to ride properly, unless she has a mother, or other
female relative, who, being herself a good rider, is also capable of
imparting her own knowledge to her youthful pupil The custom
prevalent in many families, of the daughters being allowed to take
lessons in riding either in a fashionable riding-school in London, or

On Horseback. 193

at some watering place, is, in many respects, most objectionable, and,
to say the least of it, is a waste of time and money, for a woman
cannot learn to ride well by such means. A man who has good
hands himself may teach a woman how to handle reins, and to
humour her horse's mouth ; but it is quite impossible for him to
teach her how to sit in her saddle, from the simple fact that he can-
not do it himself. A man is as much at sea in a side-saddle as a
landsman would be if he were sent up to the mast-head without
having learned in early youth how " to hold on by his eyelids !"

I am continually told that a side-saddle must hurt a horse's back
unless the animal has long been accustomed to carry a lady ; but
there is no greater mistake than to suppose that to be a necessary
consequence. If the saddle fits the horse, and the rider sits straight,
there will be no more mark on the horse's back than from a man's
saddle ; but I candidly confess that these two points are not very
easy to attain — firstly, because one seldom finds more than one side-
saddle, or at most two, in ordinary saddle^rooms, and they do not fit
horses so easily as a man's saddle, and the second point can only be
acquired by practice. The saddle must not only fit the horse pro-
perly, but it ought to suit the rider equally well ; and this latter and
most important point is in most cases completely ignored. I hold
that for the rider to be comfortably seated goes a long way towards
preventing the saddle from injuring the horse's back. When a
saddler makes a side-saddle to order, he invariably wishes the lady
to see it in progress at his shop, and to sit on it for him to judge of
the position of the pommels ; but in default of personal measurement,
in sending a written order the lady should be very particular to
describe her height, and whether she possesses long or short legs, for
to be correct in this last respect is of great importance, as far as
comfort in the saddle goes. If the rider has short legs, and is put
into a long saddle, her right leg will not have a proper grasp of the
centre pommel, and she will thereby feel less secure in her seat,
besides being uncomfortable ; and the same argument applies to long
legs in a short saddle with even greater force. It is also most neces-
sary that the third pommel should come exactly in the right place,
for if it is placed too low it will press on the rider's leg, and it ought
not to be felt unless it is wanted. Many persons advocate extra
straps on a side-saddle — called balance straps ! — with a view to
keeping it straight ; but this is a most absurd and erroneous idea,
for if the rider does not sit straight, or the saddle does not fit
the horse, all the straps that ever came out of a saddler's shop will
not keep the saddle in its place, and, for my own part, I even

1 94 The Gentleman fs Magazine.

object to the usual outside strap attached to side-saddles; it is simply
useless lumber.

Having procured a suitable saddle, the next step is to learn to sit
on it, and without experience this is not so simple as it looks.
Nothing but constant practice will give either a good or a secure seat ;
balance is the great point, and, this gained, security will be the result.
Many a woman will have a pretty and graceful seat on horseback,
but it does not follow that it is a good one, and a good and secure
seat may not always be a graceful one. When the horse is going
only at a foot pace the rider may appear to sit straight and well, but
put him into a trot and then let us watch — the lady is now all on one
side, leaning well in her stirrup, so as to rise to the action of the
horse, leaving a great space of saddle on the off side ; this is not as
it should be. It is quite possible for a woman to sit as straight in
trotting as at a slower pace, and she should not attempt to rise solely
from the stirrup, for by so doing she brings the saddle out of its
place, and a sore back is probably the consequence. She ought to
rise from her right knee, pressing it down between the pommels, and
then there will be no fear of the saddle moving. If the rider cannot
accomplish this at first, she should practise a few times without a
stirrup, and she will then realise the merit of the plan suggested, both
in keeping the saddle straight and securing her own balance.

In these days of extra pommels a stirrup is not necessary to a lady
in the same degree that stirrups are to a man, and if it were dispensed
with in a beginner, till her balance in the saddle is certain, we should
not see ladies " working " in their saddles, for they would then have
no lever to enable them to wriggle about, and it is this same wriggling
that gives so many sore backs, which a quiet, firm seat never does.

To revert to a previous remark on the rarity of good horsewomen,
I again repeat it, but I use the term as distinguished from "plucky"
or hard riders. Women who combine these qualities, and who ride
well to hounds, are generally mounted on good hunters who know
their business, and their riders being ignorant of their danger they
get the credit of being good riders, though it does not follow that
they are good horsewomen ; but if one of the number can add the
'latter accomplishment to the list she gains a hundred per cent of
pleasure more than her sister equestrians.

One often hears men say that such a horse in their stable pulls so
hard that there is little pleasure in riding him, although he is perfect
in every other respect, and yet that he is as quiet as a lamb with a
lady, because all women have light hands. This is so far true that a
woman's hand must be lighter than a man's, for the reason that there

On Horseback. 195

is less weight of muscle ; and when a horse with a fretful mouth has
been continually pulled at by the heavy hand of a man, or ridden
much at exercise by grooms, who do more to ruin horses' mouths than
any one, and then feels the lighter one of a woman, he naturally goes
more pleasantly, and ceases to pull because he is not pulled at. I do
not deny that there are men with hands as light and delicate in the
handling of a horse's mouth as those of any woman, and if the gene-
rality of men were to hold on less by their horse's mouth they
would not find so many hard pullers to complain of. Not but what
it is an advantage to a powerful horse, that has to carry sixteen stone
or more, if he can carry some of the weight in his mouth — that is to
say, be allowed to lean a little on his bit. A woman's hands ought to
be by nature light, but many are hard and without any elasticity of
wrist or finger, and these require special training to acquire the art of
using the reins lightly. It is very surprising to see how many riders
there are of both sexes who, when they have once got hold of the
reins, are afraid of letting them go again, and this is one cause of
"deadness" of hand; and another consequence is that; if the horse
ducks his head or alters the position in any way the rider's body goes
with the reins instead of holding them with ease, so as to allow of the
arm only following the vagaries of the horse's head.

Few people agree with respect to the bit most suitable for a lad/s
horse, but my own opinion is that a plain double bridle is the best,
and of as light a kind as can be to suit his mouth. The Dimchurch
curb, with its moveable mouthpiece, is the best I know among bits
that can be light or sharp according to the height of the port.
It is also insisted on by many persons that it is better for a lady to
use only the curb and to allow the bridoon to hang loose, with the
idea that the rider has more purchase, and that it will make the horse
go more on his haunches ; but if the horse has not been properly
trained to bring his hind legs well under him, or his make and shape
are impediments, a sharp bit will not have the desired effect, and if
the rider only uses the curb all chance of learning " hand " is gone.
The rider ought to use both reins in quick paces, slackening or
tightening each according to the pace she wishes to go and to the
horse's eagerness at the moment and if she can only learn to do this,
and never to keep a dead pull, and to understand the merit and
advantage of thus playing with, her horse's mouth, she will have
advanced a great way towards becoming a good horsewoman.

Those who begin as children in the country have a great advantage
over their sisters whom circumstances have prevented from ever
getting on a horse until they have arrived at woman's estate. These

196 The GentlemarCs Magazine.

have a hard task before them, and their teachers a still harder one, par-
ticularly if they are self-sufficient damsels who, seeing others ride, think
that it is only necessary to procure a habit and a horse to enable
them to hold their own either in Rotten Row or even in the hunting
field. I am not making this assertion without personal knowledge
of several instances of this same self-sufficiency and the terrible acci-
dents that have been the natural consequences. To attain perfection
in the art of riding, a woman ought not only to have begun in
early childhood, but she and her pony must understand each other
thoroughly, so that when she is old enough to be trusted out riding
alone, she can make her pony her companion and friend, be able to
get on and off without assistance, in search of wild flowers, nuts,
or any similar country pursuit. As her pony gives place to a horse,
the latter will become equally her friend ; and to go out with her
horse for a " schooling " ride will be as natural a mode of taking air
and exercise as a drive in the family carriage, or a prim constitutional
walk with the governess or companion, would be to the more con-
ventionally brought up young woman. We need hardly ask which
is likely to prove the more cheerful and healthy of the two. An
experienced horsewoman should always wear a spur when out alone
or on a " schooling " expedition, as she will know when and how to
use it, and a horse will always go better up to his bit when he knows
his rider has a spur — but I do not by any means recommend a
beginner to wear one, as she may use it unconsciously. These
" schooling" rides which I suggest will have the effect of making a
horse much more handy in the hunting field as well as for hack
riding. And he will not mind being turned away from other horses,
if he has been accustomed to jump in cold blood ; he and his rider
will also be more clever at opening gates. This may seem a super-
fluous remark, but experience has taught me how few men there are
who know how to open a gate, and still fewer women ; and however
much hard riders may scorn gates, being able to open them is a very
necessary accomplishment both for hack riding and hunting. Many
men are unable to catch a gate when it is opened, much less to open
it and fling it for those who follow. It has often happened to me in
going from covert to covert, and even when hounds have been run-
ning, that a gentleman has kindly offered to open a gate for me, and
on accepting his assistance I found him unable to do so and I have
opened it for him instead.

The kind of " schooling " before mentioned not only improves the
horse, but goes a long way towards perfecting his rider's hand, for the
horse may not always be in the same temper, and he may require

On Horseback. 197

more patience and humouring one day than he does another, but in
a short time the greatest confidence will be established between the
two, and the horse is such a noble animal that he will do far more for
his friend than he will do for the mere master or mistress who only
cares to ride him for the sake of exercise or the excitement of a
gallop : and he repays one thoroughly for any trouble one takes in
training him. The woman who has learned to ride in this exceptional
manner will be much less dependent on others in the hunting field,
whether she wishes to ride hard or only to follow the line by means
of lanes and gaps, with an occasional fence, and we shall never hear
complaints of her " being in the way," and that the " hunting field is
no place for a woman," and other uncomplimentary remarks, which
I must say have not surprised me when I see ladies galloping about,
utterly ignorant as to why they gallop, annoying the whole field, and
most of all their male friend, father, or brother as the case may be,
whom they have persuaded to take them out for a day's hunting. If
a lady is to go out hunting in any fashion let her be able to take care
of herself, so that if her chaperon, to keep near the hounds, is obliged
to take* a stiffer line than she or her horse is equal to, she need not
be a clog on him, but let her follow others who ride less hard with-
out feeling it necessary to appeal to them for help or protection,
and after a little experience she will discover many who, although no
longer able to ride straight to hounds, being thorough sportsmen, are
no mean pilots to pin her faith on. And to arrive at this feeling of
independence and self-reliance a woman must have learned to ride in
the country in the unconventional manner I have described. It may
be argued that this training will make her " horsey; " but in that result
as a necessary consequence I do not agree at all, for in most cases
the more she really knows on the subject the more quiet she will be.
The really "horsey" damsel in the "slang" meaning of the term is
usually " slangy " in other respects, and on horseback she squares her
elbows, holding her hands anywhere but as they ought to be held,
frets her horse to death, thinking by such means to attract notice for
her good horsemanship, and will engage in " horsey " talk, probably
proving thereby how completely ignorant she is of the horse, his
nature, and his ways. Let us see this showy lady at the covert side,
and listen to her conversation, and then compare her with yonder
quiet-looking woman, perfectly " got up," with her hair, whatever the
prevailing fashion may be, neatly dressed close to her head, and the
hat firmly set on. There is nothing to attract the attention of the
general public ; there is no squaring of the elbows or show about her,
and she is quite content to exchange a few words with acquaintances
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. p

198 The Gentleman s Magazine.

wjio happen to be near her, without talking too much, for fear of
distracting her own or her neighbour's attention from the business
of the day, and she listens as anxiously as any one for the first whimper
from some steady old hound that proclaims the " quarry " to be on
foot. Then my quiet friend goes off with her chaperon or. groom, and
whether she intends to ride hard or merely to follow the line, the
chances are that she will not be far off at the finish, and that without
having attracted any unpleasing remark, from the fact of her never
being found in anybody's way; and at the end of the day many men
will probably recall how they saw her take such and such fences, and
will wonder how it happened that she was always to the fore but
never obtrusive.

Her flashy rival was less fortunate. Ready to gallop directly the
rest of the field started, away she went, without in the least knowing
where she was going or why, and after being nearly squeezed in a
gateway, or ridden over at a gap, her chaperon wisely guided her to a
road, and she was no more seen.

These little sketches will illustrate the difference I wish to describe
between the woman who thinks she can ride, and who causes men to
inveigh against the presence of the fair sex in the hunting field, and
she who says little on the subject, and who yet wins admiration for
her good riding, and with whom no fault can be found. If all my
fair friends would take example by this latter portrait, those whose
ambition it is to ride hunting would be hailed as an attraction in the
field by their male friends, instead of being looked upon as out of
place, which I am afraid is often the case now.

It is bad enough to find a man who endeavours to follow hounds
but cannot ride, and who does his best to prevent other people by-
crossing them at fences, only to perform a " voluntary ; " but to come
across a woman who continually " hangs fire " at obstructions is a
thousand times worse. With regard to the horse upon which a woman
ought to learn to ride a few words may be added. An old hunter or
a charger is undoubtedly the best My own inclination would lead
me to advise the former, as a pupil is likely to learn more quickly on
such an animal ; but for a very timid person the charger might be
preferable, for he has been so highly trained, and his spirit kept so
completely within bounds, that it would be impossible for the most
nervous of riders to feel any fear when mounted.

My First Duck.

BY "PATHFINDER."

MRfiS'Y first duck! On second thoughts I rather doubt
: Jl whether I am justified in prefixing the possessive
pronoun "my" to that duck; still, since Mrs. Glass
. calls it "your" hare, while still recommending you
to catch the same, perhaps I may be allowed the same literal licence.
Let me say at once that nobody else claimed the bird — in fact,
nobody else shot at it, and it fell dead almost at my feet ; but, alas !
it never quite came to hand. Circumstances over which I had no
control prevented my adding that ill-fated bird to the "Birds of the
British Isles" which (tailing victims, as the first fruits of their species,
to my youthful aim) have been immortalised by our local taxidermist.

What these circumstances were I must go on to relate. Time and
tide are said to wait for no roan, and one of these impartial forces
had something to do with the fate of my hero.

It was in the autumn of (never mind how many years ago), that

I received an invitation to spend the latter part of my holidays with a
jolly old uncle in Cardiganshire. He owned a large estate of bog and
hill, with an unprofitable suspicion of lead permeating the latter, while
the former abutted for a mile or so on the estuary of the River Dovey.
I was to bring my gun, as I was promised plenty of wild shooting,
under the special guidance' of a certain " character" known to me
long before only by the mm de chassc of " The Little Tailor."

Need I say how eagerly I accepted my uncle's invitation, and
prepared my very slender shooting " kit " for the campaign ? I was a
long, keen, gun-bitten school boy, painfully self-conscious of my stick-
ups and incipient whisker, when the Shrewsbury and Aberystwith
coach deposited me at the cross-road which led to my uncle's house.
There he was, waiting for me, looking ruddy and jovial as ever, and
with him a short, bandy-legged, blear-eyed man, [dressed in seedy
black velveteen, and connected with a hand barrow for my luggage,
to whom I was shortly introduced as being " The Little Tailor," of
whose sayings and doings I had heard so many racy anecdotes. By
profession this queer little fellow was, as his nickname inferred, a
tailor ; I believe when things sporting were slack he crossed his legs
and condescended to ameliorate the rags and tatters of the hamlet

200 The Gentlematis Magazine.

where he resided ; but during some nine months in the year he hung
about my uncle's back premises, providing by hook or by crook fish
and fowl for "the master's" larder, always ready and eager at a
moment's notice to take the field with his master or his guests, and
lead them right up to whatever game there was to be shot at on the
estate, or, for that matter, over the border either. Suffering as the
unfortunate man did from an incurable mania for destroying and appro-
priating the wild denizens of the bog or hill — to wit, the game thereof —
my uncle wisely determined that he should do so as his keeper, and,
by an irregular wage and more regular interviews with the butler, he
kept on good terms with him, though his patience was frequently tried
to the utmost by the tailor's drinking propensities, which, when the fit
came on him, sent him back after a three or four days' absence with
the fishiest of eyes and a glowing nose that you could almost light
your pipe at His tobacco, like his liquors, he preferred neat — an
inexhaustible quid bulged out his left cheek from morning jto night
He spoke English in a fair but original style, occasionally introducing
sesquipedalia verba picked up from the newspapers, which he under-
stood as little as he was proud of them. He was full of anecdotes,
and his tongue was seldom quiet, but he was always respectful and
" know'd " his place. Such was my companion zti&fidus Achates for
the next six weeks. And what a glorious time we had of it ! Oh
for the joys of a tramp over a rough wild beat, with its mixed bag,
and no unpleasant suggestions as to your non-possession of a game-
licence ; no would-be-sharp watchers to inquire " yer bizness a tres-
passin'," if perchance you follow a wild covey a few fields beyond
your bounds. Ah ! — come, I'm off the line. Whip me back to that
duck and ducking of mine which I sat down to write about.

The yarns " The Little Tailor " was wont to spin to me about his
" doughty deeds " amongst the wild fowl in winter time, with a certain
long-barrelled ramshackle rusty gun, which was slung to the rafters of
his cottage, made me as keen as mustard to have an innings at the
same kind of game.

*

" When would the ducks begin to show ?" I asked. " Oh ! for the
matter of that there was ever a few dooks aboot ; but in a week or
two, about the end of October, if I could get out along with him by
nights he would expose to me a grand shoot But I must be sure to
borrow the master's long gun." " What gun ?" I asked. " Oh, the
master's got a beautiful gun within, what he bought last year ; she
will throw five loads of shot quite easy, and kill most any distance.
He lended her to me once last winter, and I had a misfortune wid
her ; the nose of her got chocked up with snow as I pushed her over

My First Duck. 201

the say-wall, and when I fired she split' for more than a foot down
the barrel. The master was mighty vexed about it ; I dursn't meet
him for a long whiles, but the mistress said a soft word for poor
Morgan the tailor, and the smith took off the bursted part, and I
expect she will shoot as good as ever. You will have to get her from
the master if you want to get a dook."

Need I say that within a very few hours I made a diligent inquiry
of my uncle concerning the above abbreviated duck-gun, and was
introduced to her ladyship, where, with certain mixed company, she
was reclining in a darkish corner of my uncle's sanctum ? Her high
and mighty muzzle towered above the motley herd of rods, walking-
sticks, &c, amid which she was reposing, even as the axe of the
lictor lorded it over the surrounding fasces. On a large scale, in truth,
was this " little love " of my sporting uncle. Not far short of twenty
pounds in weight, and, goodness knows how many inches of barrel
(minus the amputated part), she might possibly come fairly "up to the
shoulder of a tall powerful man, but it required a mighty muscular
effort and elongation of the arms, and generally staggery attitude,
before I could secure a momentary squint down the barrel, and then
I was nothing loth to "ground arms " with a sigh of relief. However,
nothing daunted by her ladyship's monstrous proportions, I formally
proposed for her trigger, and permission was given me to " go in and
win," if I could, with an amusing caution not to imitate her former
suitor's — the tailor's — behaviour, by unnecessarily blowing her up.

Not many days elapsed before I had an opportunity of bringing
matters to an issue. " The Little Tailor " and I were returning home
on a gusty, wild afternoon, after a weary but not unsuccessful tramp,
when we made out sundry dusky patches floating with the tide up the
Dovey, which the keen sight of my companion pronounced to be
" dooks an' widgins." With a view to reclaim certain land from the
ravages of high tides, my uncle had erected, here and there, low
stone and stake embankments and walls, which ran down to low
water mark. These sea-walls were a great help to " The Little Tailor "
in covering his stealthy advance on the " dook " of the period, as he
floated up on the tide, or vegetated on the mud banks. On the
present occasion he thought that if I was artful enough to creep down
to the end of one of these said walls I should probably get a shot.
But then, my little fourteen-bore single was such a poor tool to go into
action with ! Happy thought ! Now will be the time to try my
uncle's young cannon; we were close home, so I packed the tailor
off post haste to fetch " her." Oh 1 shades of impatience ! What a
time the little beggar was gone ! In an ocular point of view I was

<202 The Gentletnatis Magazine.

straining at the leash like a greyhound who has sighted his hare. The
ducks kept coming in closer and closer to the shore. From where I
stood they seemed to be hardly twenty yards from the end of one of
the walls. I was inwardly confounding my messenger, morally con-
vinced that he was sipping beer in the servants' hall, and about to
slip down to the river and try my luck with my own little gun, when
the object of my objurgations appeared at the "double," trailing the
great gun, and panting and perspiring as if he had been racing all the
way, instead of from the first corner only.

We had some difficulty in loading. The weapon was not only
heavy in hand, but such a great " bore," that, having no proper
wadding, we had to administer an alarming " bolus " of paper to bring
her up to the mark (about two and a half hands on the ramrod, so
said the tailor), and no cap could fit her properly ; however, at last
I was off with her in my arms, and with stealthy stride and humped
back I gained the shelter of the wall without attracting the attention
of my quarry. Now for a moment's rest and a change of hands for
the gun. Didn't my arm ache, that's all ? and wasn't I puffing and
blowing Kke a young grampus ? It was a mercy the ducks didn't
hear me. However,. I shut off steam as well as I could, and paddled
down the soft, muddy ditch behind the wall as noiselessly as I could,
for a hundred yards or so, when I thought I would take stock of the
relative positions of the ducks and myself. So I doffed my hat, and
clambering up the green, slimy stones, peeped over the wall. -I do
not think that I shall ever forget the scene before me : a wild stormy
sunset in the western background, with every symptom of a dirty
night brewing in the offing ; a stiff breeze hissed through the coping
stones of the wall charged with the many flavours of the sea, and
occasionally whisked a splash of salt spray into my face; the air
was full of weird cries of wild sea birds, discoursing sweet music to a
sportsman's ear ; the lap-lapping of the tide on the other side of the
wall seemed to keep time with the thumping of my heart. Three
curlew, taken for once in their lives off their guard, flapped lazily
past within a few yards of me. Happily for my chance at the ducks,
I had left the gun at the foot of the wall or I do not think I could
have resisted the temptation to give them a salute. But, oh ! cul-
mination of excitement ! there was a big patch of ducks dancing on
the waves, well within range of the wall, about 150 yards farther
down. I slipped back into the ditch in no time, seized the big
gun, and, grovelling down under the shelter of the wall, crept along
till I thought I was about opposite them. Another shin-grazing
cKmb and a peep, with the mortifying result of finding the ducks had

My First Duck. 203

moved a good .bit farther down. Back again into the ditch, and
another exhausting stalk. I am by this time almost at the end of
the wall, and the tide is swirling up past me and creeping round
behind me. I calculate that there must be three or four feet of water
on -the other side of the wall, and deepening every minute. And
now, with cocked gun, and all in a tremble with excitement, I make
my last scramble up the wall, secure as firm a footing as I can, poke
the muzzle of the gun over the coping-stones, my foot slips a little,
the gun barrel grates against the stones, and in a moment up rise the
ducks with fifty quacking power, and the whole sky is alive with
winged fowl, informing all whom it may concern with their discordant
and reproachful cries that' " There he is, the sneak ! Behind the wall !
There he is ! There he is !" The ducks wheel back overhead ; with
a mighty effort I hoist the big gun up to my shoulder, and blaze into
the brown of them. Ye Gods ! what a kick my shoulder got, and
how I napped it on the right cheek bone ! But little I recked of
that, for didn't a great quacker come flop down into the water quite
close to me ! Yes, but how am I to secure the same ? Hooray ! the
tide is floating it up right towards me. Slowly and surely that noble
bird, with its red webbed feet turned up to the sky, sailed up to me,
but no nearer than some three or four feet would it come. Horror !
the tide is taking it past me. Oh for a retriever, or fishing rod, or
anything ! Happy thought ! perhaps I can reach it with the muzzle
of the gun. I make a wild, despairing poke with the same in the
•direction of the bird. The laws of gravity are upset — in plain words
I lose my bajance, and before I can say " Jack Robinson " I am over
head and ears in some unknown depth of water. Need I say that
the instinct of self-preservation being omnipotent, I instantly sur-
rendered the gun to Father Neptune, as a tribute for trespassing on
his domains, and rose, not a little frightened, and sputtering and
gesticulating a good deal, to the surface, and with a stroke and a
kick or two reached the wall, and clambered on to it once more ?

I could almost have cried for very vexation; not a vestige of
the duck to be seen, nor of my uncle's gun either. What on earth
was I to do ? There would be an awful blow up about it when
I got home. The water was too muddy to see anything of it;
besides it was getting dark, and the tide was rising fast— in fact, I had
to clamber along the top of the wall, to high water mark, to avoid a
second involuntary bath.

"The Little Tailor" was fearfully excited when I related my mis-
fortunes. He had a lively reminiscence of the master's words to him
after his little exploit with the gun, and did not prognosticate a very

204 The Gentleman s Magazine.

happy interview between me and my relation when I should come
to relate my sad story to him — in fact, if I remember well, a hundred
pounds was the fancy figure at which he valued his non-participation
in the present catastrophe. We held a consultation about it, and
came to the conclusion that, as there was some probability of re-
covering the gun at low tide, it would be as well, perhaps, to avoid
raising the avuncular wrath that evening by saying nothing about h.
I pointed out exactly where I had fallen in, and " The Little Tailor"
promised to .be up at " grey dawn " next morning, and narrowly
inspect the "flotsam" and "jetsam" about the spot, and see
what he could do to recover the lost property. And so we parted
on that disastrous evening.

I am sorry to have to confess that I had to " draw the long bow"
to account jpr my wet clothes and late appearance at the dinner
table, and very trying were the frequent remarks as to the "absence"
displayed in my demeanour, and general falling off from my usual flqw
of spirits. Happily no awkward questions were put about the gun-V-
in fact, I do not think my uncle knew anything about its having left
the security of his library. I will draw a veil over the horrors of\
the night which followed that uncomfortable evening, of the fearful
dreams of a jury of ducks finding me " guilty" and sentencing me
to be secured by the neck to the big gun and drowned in " full
fathom five." I couldn't sleep after the first streak of dawn appeared,
so slipped on my clothes and sneaked down to the kitchen with the
wariness of a burglar, and out of the back door off to the scene of
my last evening's performance. Oh ! what a relief it was to meet
" The Little Tailor " marching home with the lost piece of ordnance,
none the worse, beyond a little mud and rust, for its night's pickling
in the briny. In a secure outhouse we cleaned her ladyship up,.
much sand, oil, and tow being expended on her toilet, and watching
my uncle safe out of the way I smuggled her back to her old berth
in his " sanctum," which I believe she occupies to this day.

Many years elapsed before I told "the master" of his gun's second
adventure, when he, good-humouredly, seemed to think (but then
distance lends, &c.,) that the recovery of his gun was as nothing
compared with the hard lines of losing my first duck, and ducking.

cleaveland: royalist, wlt, •

and Poet.

BY EDWIN GOADBY.

T the commencement of the seventeenth century Lough-
borough was one of the quaintest of Midland towns.
Situate on the top of a knoll on the left bank of the
sleepy River Soar, with rich slopes of intervening
meadow land, silted up by the river in earlier times, and a long range
of high-arched bridges to carry its main turnpike safely over the flats
during the regular floods, the town was still true to its old name —
"The- place by the lake." Behind it rose up the unenclosed wooded
heights of the Charnwood Hills, where William the Conqueror
declined Jo hunt because he declined to break his neck, and wild
game abounded, and foresters held their yearly open courts at the
coped oak, perpetuating their old Saxon customs. The town within
was quaintness itself. Thatched houses, narrow streets, a market,
and a market-cross ; wine and ale houses, with their devices painted
over the doors; and members of the guild of carpenters and other
trade associations moving about, not too anxiously, or peeping out of
their shops ; now and then a long string of pack-horses passing
through the street with corn or salt, or a lumbering waggon jolting
along on its way to Leicester or to Nottingham, or possibly London
or York ; or rubicund yeomen crowding in, with their white-aproned
wives and daughters; or a wayside minstrel, singing his songs or
playing his conjuring tricks ; or an irruption of boys from the high-
gabled Grammar School by the church, which had sent many a poor
scholar to Oxford or Cambridge ; or a grand peal from the noble old
tower of the church itself, which stood out in the surrounding land-
scape, bold and ubiquitous, — all these made it quite a curiosity to
neighbouring villagers not less than to passing travellers or beggars,
sure of a night's rest in a farmstead, and a few pence from the
dispensers of the various local charities.

Our business, however, i^ with the Grammar School. It was a
plain building, but it gave a free and substantial education to all the
youths of the town, and it had a remarkable history. One Thomas
Burton, a native and a merchant of the staple, had left lands in the

206 The Gentletnaris Magazine.

fifteenth century for pious purposes, which had subsequently been
diverted and devoted to a free school, the payment of town taxes,
and the support of the poor. The school itself dated from June 28,
1 569, and its rules show that education was once a serious business.
The school-doors were to be opened at six o'clock in the morning
from Lady-day to Michaelmas, and at seven from Michaelmas to
Lady-day. One hour was allowed for breakfast, and two hours —
from eleven till one — for dinner. It was the duty of the master and
his assistants to teach the boys " to read in psalter or testament,"
to teach them "writing and accounts, sufficient for being put to
apprenticeship," and "to instruct youths in classical learning, begin-
ning with ye grammar, untill fit for ye Universitie." Many famous
men have been educated in this school, including Dr. Pulteney, the
botanist, and Bishop Davys, of Peterborough, who acted as tutor to
Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

At the date I have mentioned the schoolmaster was Mr. George
Dawson, a scholar unknown to fame, and his assistant was Thomas
Cleaveland, M.A., father of a more famous son, in the person of John
Cleaveland, orator, wit, royalist, and poet. There has ahrays been
some doubt as to the position occupied by Cleaveland, and as to
whether his son was born at Loughborough or at Hinckley, whither
the father subsequently removed ; but I am able to settle both points
by the very best evidence. An examination of the accounts of the
bridge-master, who was the financial officer of Burton's charity, shows
that Thomas Cleaveland was an usher in the Grammar School,
possibly acting as curate to the Rev. John Brown, the rector of the •
parish, at the same time. His salary was small, as appears by the
following entry, which occurs first in 161 1, and every year subse-
quently until his removal to Hinckley : —

" Item, paid to Mr. Cleaveland (usher), Simon Mudd's legacye,
due as before (i.e. half yearly), XLs."

Four pounds a year could hardly have been the whole of his
salary, but as the schoolmaster himself only received ^12 13s. 6d. a
year, and could not hold other preferment — though he acted as clerk
in the town, keeping the public accounts, and writing out the parish
register — I assume that Cleaveland supplemented his wretched
salary in one way or another. Coin had been debased between 1543
and 1560, so that in the early part of the seventeenth century the
shilling contained but ninety-three grains of silver, and wheat had
risen to 38s. 6ti. per quarter. Under these circumstances, no man
could be " passing rich " upon four pounds a year. Four children
were born to the Rev. Thomas Cleaveland, as the register styles him,

Cleaveland, Royalist, Wit, and Poet. 207

during his residence in the town : " Mary Cleaveland " — I copy the
old spelling — was baptised October 17, and buried October 19, 161 1 ;
John, the poet, was baptised June 17, 1613; Margaret, August 27,
1 61 5 ; and Joseph, of whom we subsequently hear nothing, June 14,
1620. In 1621 Cleaveland obtained the living of Hinckley. He at
once placed his son John under the care of Richard Vines, the head
master of the Hinckley Grammar School, who, curiously enough, was
as ardent a Puritan as his pupil became a Royalist. The future
poet was so forward a scholar that he entered Christ Church College,
Cambridge, in his fifteenth year — that is, in 1628. When eighteen
he became B.A., at twenty-one he was elected fellow of St. John's,
and at twenty-two he became M. A. Thus, as a quaint writer remarks,
" To cherish so great hopes, the Lady Margaret drew forth both her
breasts. Christ College gave him admission, and St. John's a fellow-
ship. There he lived about nine years, the delight and ornament of
that society. What service as well as reputation he did it, let his
orations and epistles speak ; to which the library oweth much of its
learning, the chapel much of its pious decency, and the college much
of its renown."

During Cleaveland's residence in Cambridge he was much moved
by two incidents, which may be said to have determined his whole
future career. The first incident was a royal visit. Charies I. reached
Cambridge in May, 1633, accompanied by Laud, Bishop of London,
on his way to Scotland to cure Presbyterianism, " the loud rustle of
him," as Carlyle says, " disturbing for a day the summer husbandries
and operations of mankind. " In his capacity of orator, Cleaveland
wrote an epistle on the event, which is preserved in his works, and
may be cited as a fair specimen of his Latinity. The following
extract may suffice to justify Fuller's criticism that he was a " pure
Latinist " : —

Caesaris Epilogus fuit Prologue Caroli, neque enim optior Stella, quam Invic-
tissima illius Herois Anima, quae vestrae soboli res gerendas ominaretur. Stellam
dixi ? Muto factum ; crederem potius ipsum Solem fuisse, qui tunc temporis
tibi relimavit moderamen Diei, et ut Principis cunas fortius videret, suum in
Stellam contraxit oculum. Ecce ut patrissat Carolus ! Ut ad vestras Virtutes
anhelus surgit ! Quod sub pientissimo Rege accidisse legimus Solem multis
gradibus retro ferri, Principis aetis pari portento compensavit damnum, cujus
festina virtus devorat Horologium, et Pueritia* nondum libati meridiem attigit.
. . . O faelicem interim Academiam, et jEternititatem quandam nactam ! quae in
Rege et Principe, et esse nostrum, et nostrum fore simul complectitur. Non est quod
plura expectentur saecula ; yiximus et nostram et posterorum vitam. Sed vereor
ne molestus fuerim importuno officio, quod in tarn illustri praesentia in nescio quid
magus piaculo excrescit. Minima coram Rege Errata, tanquam angustiores
rimae, extendmrtnr famine. Oratio itaque nostra pro genio temporum ref ormabitur,

2o8 The Gentlematis Magazine.

vel, quod tantundem est, rescindetur. Hoc unicum praefabor votum; Vivas
Augustissime, »Pietas tuorum et Tremor Hostium. Vivas denique earn indutus
gloriam, ut Filium tuum Carolum appellemus Maximum, quia solo Patre
minorem.

As might be expected, the King was highly delighted, and sum-
moned Cleaveland to his presence, gave him his hand to kiss, and
offered him other expressions of grace and kindness. A copy of the
letter was sent by command to the King at Huntingdon, and Cleave-
land was henceforth, whatever he might have been previously,
an enthusiastic and devoted Royalist. The second incident was
Oliver Cromwell's election as M.P. for Cambridge in 1640, "recom-
mended by Hampden, say some ; not needing any recommendation
in those fen counties, think others," as Carlyle puts the matter.
Cambridge was a Parliamentary hot-bed, but Cleaveland worked hard
against Cromwell, whom he detested and privately designated as
" a screech-owl" — in those days choice epithets were rare ; and fore-
seeing disaster, as the result of his futile opposition, he turned upon
the town and said, "That single vote had ruined both Church and
kingdom." Cambridge soon became an important garrison town ;
but before this and other serious indications of the direction of afiairs
occurred, Cleaveland found that he had raised a storm about his ears.
" Perceiving the ostracism that was intended," says one writer, " he
became a volunteer in his academic exile, and would no longer
breathe the common air with such pests of mankind." Another
writer states that he lost his fellowship by reason of his outrageous
royalism. He doffed his cap and gown, and proceeded to the King's
camp at Oxford, where he was well received, and indeed he deserved
to be, being a martyr to his King. He had been the first to appear
in verse on the King's side, and probably the poem thus honoured
was the one on " The King's Return " : —

Return'd ; I'll ne'er believ't ; first prove him hence —
Kings travel by their beams and influence.
Who says the soul gives out her Gests, or goes
A flitting progress 'twixt the head and toes ?
She rules by omnipresence ; and shall we
Deny a Prince the same ubiquity ?

But the foundation of his reputation in the camp was " The Rebel
Scot," one of the bitterest of his satires, to be noticed anon. Cleave-
land, however, was not a warrior, he was only a wit, though the point
of his pen did more mischief than the pike of a Puritan. The Parlia-
mentarians never forgave him his attacks, and the Cavaliers never
forgot his verses. The first opening that came was given him by

Cleav eland, Royalist \ Wit> and Poet. 209

Charles — it was the Judge-Advocateship of the garrison at Newark,
in Nottinghamshire, under Sir R. Wills, Governor of the places
Here he remained until its surrender in 1646, employing his wit and
his verse in various ways. He kept the garrison in good heart in
spite of frequent sieges. His reply to the summons -of surrender is
fortunately preserved, and it displays the full-blooded sincerity of his
royalism. He wrote — " I am neither to be stroak'd into apostacy by
the mention of fair conditions in a misty notion ; nor to be scared
into dishonour by your running derision on the fate of Chester. . . .
Whereas you urge the expense of the siege, and the pressure of the
country in supporting your charge — there I confess I am touched to
the quick. But their miseries, though they make my heart bleed,
must not make my honour. My compassion to my country must
not make me a parricide to my Prince. Yet, in order to their ease,
if you will grant me a pass for some gentlemen to go to Oxford, that
I may know His Majesty's pleasure, whether, according to his letter,
he will wind up the business in general, or leave every commander to
steer his own course ; then I shall know what to determine. Other-
wise, I desire you to take notice, that when I received my com-
mission for the government of this place, I annexed my life as a
label to my trust."

Whilst at Newark, an amusing correspondence took place between
Cleaveland and a Parliamentary officer who signs himself W. E., but
whose real name I have been unable to discover. The servant of
this officer, Hill by name, decamped to Newark, with ^138 os. 8d of
his master's money. W. E. wrote to Cleaveland — "Give the fellow his
just reward : prefer him, or send him hither, and we shall, if you dare
not trust him, let him be trussed ; if you dare, I shall wish you more
such servants." Cleaveland's reply is very caustic : " Did not Demas
leave Paul ? Did not Onesimus run from his master Philemon ? . . .
You say that your man is entered our ark ; I am sorry you were so
ignorant in Scripture as to let him come single. . . . Reflect but
upon yourself, how you have used our Common Master, and I doubt
not but you will pardon your man. He hath but transcribed rebellion,
and copied out that disloyalty in short-hand which you have
committed in text." W. E. laments that so much wit should be
wasted upon him, whereupon replies Cleaveland, " My wit shall be on
what side heaven you please, provided it ever be antarctick to yours."
Though Cleaveland had the better of this combat, he was sorely
worsted in another. After Newark surrendered he made another
effort to join himself to the King. He was taken prisoner by a body
of Scottish troopers under David Lesley, afterwards Lord Newark,

2 1 o The Gentleman's Magazine.

who may or may not have suspected the real character of his prisoner.
Cleaveland was threatened with the gallows, numerous papers being
found upon him. He was brought before Lesley, and his papers
were examined. They proved to be only a bundle of verses. " Is
this all ye have to charge him with?" asked Lesley. "For shame S for
shame ! Let the poor fellow go about his business, and sell his
ballads!" Cleaveland made no reply, but pocketed his ballads —
damnatory as most of them were, had they been read — and became
a wanderer. Report says he found Bacchus more comforting than
the immortal Nine, but this is probably a Puritan slander. He was
not without friends, and one of them declares that as many places
emulously contended for his abode as cities for the birthplace of
Homer.

Further misfortune befel him. He reached Norwich, and became
a private tutor; but he was again arrested in November, 1655. A
curious document is extant, in the form of a letter from Major-
General Haynes to the President of the Council, explaining the
whole affair. It is worth quoting entire.

May it please your Lordship,
In observance to the orders of his Highness and Council sent unto us, we have
this day sent unto the garrison of Yarmouth one John Cleveland, of Norwich,
late Judge- Advocate of Newark, who we have judged to be comprised within the
second head. The reasons of judgment are : —

1 . He confesseth that about a year since he came from London to the City of
Norwich, and giveth no account of any business he had there ; only he prctendeth
that Edward Cooke, Esq., maketh use of him to help him in his studies.

2. Mr. Cleveland confesseth that he hath lived in the said Mr. Cooke's house
ever since he came to the said city, and that he but seldom went into the city,
and never but once into the country. Indeed, his privacy hath been such that
none or but few, save Papists and Cavaliers, did know that there was such a
person resident in these parts.

3. For that the place of the said Mr. Cleveland, his abode — viz., the said Mr.
Cooke's — is a family -of notorious disorder, and where Papists, delinquents, and
other disaffected persons of the late King's party, do often resort more than to
any family in the said city or county of Norfolk, as is commonly reported.

4. Mr. Cleveland liveth in a genteel garbe, yet he confesseth that he hath no
estate but ^20 per annum allowed by two gentlemen, and ^30 per annum by the
said Mr. Cooke.

5. Mr. Cleveland is a person of great abilities, and so able to do the greater
disservice : all which we humbly submit, and remain

Your Honour's trusty humble servants.

This remarkable epistle was signed by Haynes and thirteen others,
and is dated Norwich, November 10, 1655. Cromwell had desired
the discontented to be looked after, and a scholar was arrested
because he was poor, clever, had been an old enemy, and wore "a

Cleaveland, Royalist, Wit, and Poet. 2 1 1

genteel garbe." His arrest is noted by Carlyle, as follows : — " This
is John Cleaveland, the famed Cantab scholar, Royalist Judge-Advo-
cate, and thrice-illustrious satirist and son of the Muses; who had
' gone through eleven editions ' in those times, far transcending all
Miltons and all Mortals, — and does not now need any twelfth edition
that we hear of. Still recognisable for a man of lively parts and
brilliant petulant character : directed, alas ! almost wholly to the
worship of clothes, — which is by nature a transient one ! "

Cleaveland remained at Yarmouth for some little time, occupying
his enforced leisure in the composition of poetic trifles. Not relish-
ing his captivity, however, he resolved on making a direct appeal ta
Cromwell himself. This letter is perhaps the best and purest specimen
of his style, but it is too long to quote entire, besides being pretty
generally known. He appealed to Cromwell's generosity, referred to
his past fidelity as a voucher for his present loyalty, and desired him
with acts of mildness to "vanquish his own victory." "Can your
Thunder be levell'd so low as our grovelling condition ? Can your
tow'ring spirit which hath quarried upon kingdoms make a stoop at
us who are the rubbish of these ruines ? Methinks I hear your former
Achievements interceding with you, not to sully your glories with
trampling upon the prostrate, nor clog the wheels of your chariot with
so degenerous a triumph." Generous to his old and prostrate
antagonist, Cromwell ordered his immediate release. Cleaveland
went to London, taking up his residence in Gray's Inn, and associating
with a noted club of wits. Nichols says this club included the author
of " Hudibras ;" but this could hardly have been the case, as Mr.
Robert Bell produces evidence to show that Butler was steward at
Ludlow Castle in 1661, and had previously been in other similar
situations. I have been unable to discover the name or th? members
of this club, but I suspect it was the " King Club," and that Cleave-
land, like all the others, received the cognomen of " King " Cleave-
land, which he most certainly deserved. The Puritan Rota or Coffee
Club numbered among its attenders Milton, Marvell, Cyriac Skinner,
Harrington, and Nevill ; and the King Club must have had a like
brilliant assemblage, though it has found no such lively historian or
sketcher as Pepys. An intermittent fever which raged in London
seized Cleaveland in April, 1658, and he fell a victim to it on the
29th, in the forty-fifth year of his age. His body was taken from his
chambers to Hurasdown House, and thence it was conveyed, on the
1st of May, to the parish church of St. Michael Royal, College Hill,
where it was buried by his old friend, the Rev. Edward Thurman,
who penned a Latin poem on his death. His funeral sermon was

2 1 2 The Gentleman 's Magazine.

preached by Dr. Pearson, afterwards Bishop of Chester, who, says
Fuller, quaintly, "rendered this reason why he cautiously declined all
commending of the deceased, because such praising would not be
adequate to any expectation in that auditory, seeing such who knew
him not would suspect it far above, whilst such who were acquainted
with him did know it much beneath his due dessert" Elegiac poems
poured forth in abundance, whilst many who admitted his genius
whilst he lived disputed his position after his death, or essayed to lay
their " cuckoo-eggs in his nest." Everybody has read " Hudibras,"
but there are not many who are equally familiar with Cleaveland, who
was to Butler what Jonson was to Shakespeare and Parnell to Pope.
No one has even attempted to show that Cleaveland exercised any
influence over the development of his more famous successor ; but
no diligent student can read the poems of the former without dis-
covering in them hints of style and certain kinds of satire and rich
allusiveness which serve to give to " Hudibras " half its charm and
power.

Cleaveland was by no means a voluminous writer. His entire
works do not make a volume of the size of " Hudibras," but he
found quite as many imitators, and to Cleavdandise was once as
common as recently it was to write " Carlyleise." But his occasional
coarseness — a quality as common in Robert Herrick, who was also a
student at Cambridge in his time — offends our polite ears ; though I
shall esteem myself fortunate if I can only do for the former what
Sylvanus Urban did for the latter in the earlier numbers of this
magazine. The same tendency to conceits is observable in the
poems of both, though it is not so systematically developed in
Cleaveland, who calls up image after image, and scarcely concerns
himself with the orderly pursuit and elaboration of any. Perhaps
his love poems are most characterised by what may be called
systematic ideas. "Fuscara, or the Bee-Errant," is somewhat in
Herrick's style. The airy freebooter passes from Fuscara's sleeve to

her hand : —

Here, while his canting drone-pipe scan'd

The mystick figures of her hand,

He tipples palmistry, and dines

On all her fortune-telling lines.

He bathes in bliss, and finds no odds

Between this nectar and the gods'.

He perches now upon her wrist

(A proper hawk for such a fist),

Making that flesh his bill of fare,

Which even cannibals would spare.

Cleaveland, Royalist, Wit, and Poet. 213

From hence he to the woodbine bends,
That quivers at her finger's ends,
That runs division on the tree
Like a thick-branching pedigree ;
So 'tis not her the bee devours,
It is a pretty maze of flowers.
It is the rose that bleeds when he
Nibbles his nice phlebotomy.

In other poems he exhausts his fancy in comparisons. Thus he
writes of a vision : —

Not the fair abbess of the skies,

With all her nunnery of eyes,

Can show me such a glorious prize.

* * * *

Is not the universe strait-laced,
When I can clasp it in the waist ?
My amorous fold about thee hurl'd,
With Drake, I girdle in the world.
I hoop the firmament, and make
This, my embrace, the zodiack.

Of another, he writes : —

Say the astrologer who spells the stars,
In that fair alphabet reads peace and wars,
Mistakes his globe, and in her brighter eye
Interprets heaven's physiognomy.
Call her the metaphysics of her sex,
And say she tortures wits, as quartans vex
Physicians ; call her the squar'd circle ; say
She is the very rule of Algebra.
Whate'er thou understand'st not say of her,
For that's the way to write her character.

Phillis is walking in the garden before sunrise, giving life as the sun

gives it : —

The flowers call'd out of their beds

Start and raise up their drousie heads ;

And he that for their colour seeks

May see it mounting to her cheeks,

Where roses mix ; no civil war

Divides her York and Lancaster.

But the reader will have had enough of these love trifles, and
we pass to his satiric poems on State affairs, where the range for
quotation is more varied, and must be discreetly traversed. There
is not the same objection to far-fetched imagery in satire as in other
forms of poetry, and, indeed, it rather gives weight and directness to
it. If wit be the detection of the congruous in the incongruous,
Cleaveland must rank very high, for his short sparkles are abundant,
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. Q

214 ^* Gentlemafis Magazine.

and he no sooner charms us with one touch of his pen than he
essays another, finding in the resources of his memory something
more apt and more astonishing. At the same time, were we to
apply a rigid test to his poetry, we should regard it as little better
than exaggerated prose, especially prose such as Cleaveland himself
was able to write. However, all satiric poetry is open to this
objection, and Cleaveland's aim was not so much to cultivate a
jingling as a masculine style, to hit hard and sure, and to pack his
verse with thoughts and Attic salt. So rich are some of his poems
in historic and contemporary allusions, that no one could do them
justice but a Zachary Gray, who has done as much to make the fame
of Butler as scholiasts have done to interpret Shakespeare, and
without any taint of Boswellising. I have noticed that Butler must
have derived considerable inspiration from Cleaveland. Compare
them both on the Canon of 1640, called the Et catcra oath.
Butler makes a flying allusion to it in Part 1, Canto ii., but there is
more vigour in Cleaveland's description, and Dr. Gray quotes the
latter as in some sense explanatory of the former. Butler's descrip-
tion of Smectymnuus, again, suggests Cleaveland's, which was
evidently familiar to him, and there are a hundred other points
where " Hudibras" suggests, and seems more natural when considered
as the logical. development of, many of Cleaveland's scattered efforts.
The two satirists worked the same vein, and the earlier one was
more wasteful and careless, scattering his treasures about in perfect
indifference, whereas the other constructed a story, and had all the
advantages of a better ear for verse, and a more sprightly fancy,
not so much disturbed by egotism or special advocacy.

I must limit myself to one or two quotations. I will begin with
" Smectymnuus/' so called- from the initial letters of the persons
composing the club : — Stephen Marshall, Edward Calamy, Thomas
Young, Mathew Newcomen, William Spurstow. They were oppo-
nents of Episcopacy, and their followers bore the above name : —

But do the Brotherhood then play their prizes

Like mummers in religion, with disguises ?

Outbrave us with a name in rank and file ?

A name which, if 'twere rain'd, would spread a mile.

The saints monopoly, the zealous cluster,

Which, like a porcupine, presents a muster,

And shoots his quills at Bishops and their sees,

A devout litter of young Maccabees.

Thus Jack-of-all-trades hath distinctly shown

The twelve Apostles in a cherry-stone.

Thus faction's a la mode in treason's fashion,

Now we have heresie by complication.

Cleavelandt Royalist, Wit, and Poet. 215

Like to Don Quixote's rosary of slaves
Strang on a chain, a murnival of knaves
Pack'd in a trick, like gipsies when they ride,
Or like the college which sit all of a side.

The " Hue and Cry after Sir John Presbyter " is more obscure in
■some of its lines, but it exhibits CleavelancTs power of condensed
'description : —

With hair in character, and lugs (ears) in text,

With a splay mouth, and a nose circumflcxt,

With a set ruft of musket-bore, that wears

Like cartrages, or linnen bandilcers,

Exhausted of their sulphurous contents

In pulpit fire-works, which the Bombal vents ;

The negative and Covenanting oath,

Like two moustachoes issuing from his mouth,

The bush upon his chin, like a carved story

In a box -knot, cut by the Directory ;

Madam's confession hanging at his ear

Wire-drawn through all the questions, How and where ;

Each circumstance so in the hearing felt,

That when his ears are cropp'd he'll count them gelt.

The weeping cassock scar'd into a jump,

A sign the Presbyter's worn to the stump ;

The Presbyter, though charmed against mischance

With the Divine Right of an Ordinance —

If you meet any that do thus attire 'em

Stop them, they are the tribe of Adoniram.

The "Mixt Assembly" and "The Rebel Scot/ are both terribly
bitter pieces, and justify Cleaveland's own lines : —

A poet should be feared
When angry, like a comet's flaming beard.

He heaps all his withering satire on the Scot. To curse him properly

he must " swallow daggers first." His clans are " rags of geography/'

and had Cain been a Scot —

God would have changed his doom,
Not fore'd him wander, but confin'd him home.

As rebels, they must be reclaimed, but by force, the Prince who
would do it otherwise being —

Like him or worse,
Who saddled his own back to shame his horse.

Quite as happy, in another style, is his poem on " The King's

Disguise." Here is an extract : —

O for a State-Distinction to arraign

Charles of high treason 'gainst my soveraignj

His muffled feature speaks him s recluse,

His ruins prove him a religious house.

ts

2 1 6 The Gentlematis Magazine.

Heaven, which the minster of thy person owns,
Will fine thee for dilapidations.

Thou look'st like one

Whose looks are under Sequestration :
Whose renegado form, at the first glance;
Shews like the self-denying Ordinance.
* * • " •

But pardon, Sir, since I presume to be
Clerk of this Closet to your Majesty ;
Methinks in this your dark mysterious dress
I see the Gospel couched in Parables,
The second view my purblind fancy wipes
And shows religion in its dusky types ;
Such a text royal, so obscure a shade,
Was Solomon in proverbs all arrayed.

The two elegies, one on the death of Mr. Edward King, an

other on the Archbishop of Canterbury, are not without fine \

touches, overladen with much fantastic effort and not a litde lab

imagery. The first, however, is worthy of being remembered

the poet need not ask why does not —

Some new island in thy rescue peep,
To heave thy resurrection from the deep,

when he has embalmed his memory in such living verse.

What Cleaveland did in verse for his Presbyterian foes h<
in prose for the Parliamentarians. His characters are wonde
witty, though coarse withal. That of a country committee-man
have been eminently sensational in its time. Here is the recei]
this Grand-Catholicon : — " Take a State-martyr, one that for his
behaviour hath paid the excise of his ears, so suffered captivi
the land piracy of ship-money ; next a primitive freeholder, om
hates the King because he is a gentleman, transgressing the ft
Charta of delving Adam. Add to these a mortified bankrupt
helps out his false weights with some scruples of conscience, am
his peremptory scales can doom his Prince to a Mene Tekcl. '
with a new blue-stockin'd Justice, lately made of a good b
hilted yeoman, with a short-handed clerk tack'd to the rear of I
carry the knapsack of his understanding ; together with two or
equivocal Sirs, whose religion, like their gentility, is the extract o
acres ; being therefore spiritual because they are earthly; not forg
the man of the law, whose corruption gives the Hogan to the si
Juncto. These are the simples of this precious compound, i
of Dutch Hotch-Potch, the Hogan-Mogan Committee-man."
Diurnal-Maker, or Parliamentary journalist, fared no bett
Clcaveland's hands, and one of the figures brings in no less a p

Cleaveland, Royalist, Wit, and Poet. 217

than Sir Samuel Lake, the supposed hero of " Hudibras." To call a
diurnal-maker an author, he says, is to swallow him up in the phrase,
" like Sir S. L. in a great saddle, nothing to be seen but the giddy
feather in his crown." " To call him an historian is to knight a
mandrake ; 'tis to view him through a perspective, and by that gross
hyperbole to give the reputation of an engineer to a maker of mouse-
traps. Such an historian would hardly pass muster with a Scotch
stationer in a sieve-full of ballads and godly books. He would not
serve for the breast-plate of a begging Grecian. Not a worm that
gnaws on the dull scalp of voluminous Holinshed but at every meal
devoured more chronicle than his whole tribe amounts to. A marginal
note of W. P. would serve for a winding-sheet." The diurnal itself
was similarly described, and with as much force. It is "a puny
chronicle, scarce pin-feathered with the wings of time. It is a history
in sippets : the English Iliads in a nut-shell ; the Apocryphal Par-
liament's Book of Maccabees in single sheets. It would tire a
Welshman to reckon up how many Aps 'tis removed from an annal ;
for it is of that extract, only of the younger house, like a shrimp to a
lobster."

My task is now done. Many a man pays the penalty of
an immediate posthumous fame by subsequent neglect, and this has
been the fate of Cleaveland. It is a rare thing to meet with his works
in private houses, and rarer still to encounter any one who is willing
to excuse his occasional vulgarity as readily as allowances are made
for Herrick, or for greater men. As his friend Edward Thurman has
sung, " Exitium Carolus ipse% suum " — he has perished with Charles.
Butler followed, and we forget the satirist of the King's camp. It is
pleasant to laugh over Hudibras and Ralph, and we forget the author
of " The Rebel Scot " or the fierce satirist of the Smectymnuans. But
it is not fair to a man who made a style and who was a literary knight-
errant of an original and now extinct species. Fuller, who may be
said to have profited by his study of Cleaveland, describes him as
" a general artist, a pure Latinist, exquisite orator, and (which was his
master-piece) eminent poet. His epithets were metaphors, carrying
in them a difficult plainness, difficult at the hearing, plain at the con-
sidering thereof. His lofty fancy may seem to stride from the top of
one mountain to the top of another, so making to itself a constant
level and champaign of continued elevations." Fuller's words will
have their weight with Fuller's admirers, but it is a pity no one has
striven to do for Cleaveland what has been done for so many
antiques in these hero-worshipping times. It has not been done, and
hence this feeble attempt.

A Valentine.

HAT shall I send my sweet to-day,
When all the woods attune to love ?
And fain I'd show the lark and dove

That I can love as well as they.

I'll send a locket full of hair ;
But no, for it might chance to lie
Near to her heart, and I should die

Of Love's sweet envy to be there !

A violet were meet to give ;

Yet stay ! — she'd touch it with her lips,

And after such complete eclipse
How could my soul content to live ?

I'll send a kiss, for that will be
The quickest sent, the lightest borne,
And well I know to-morrow mora

She'll send another back to me.

Go, happy winds, ah ! do not stay,
Enamoured of my lady's cheek,
But hasten home and Til bespeak

Like services another day !

M. BETHAV-EpWARBfk

The Majorcan Origin of the
Family of Buonaparte.

'IVE-AND-TWENTY years ago, situated behind the
parochial church of San Jaime, at Palma, the capital of
the Balearic Islands, there stood a house which still
presented the appearance of having once been a hand-
£ome edifice, and which from time immemorial had borne the name
of Casa Buonaparte. In 1 846 a journal of Palma, El Propogddor
Balear^ took occasion therefrom, and from the corroborative
testimony of the documents produced and cited upon the following
occasion, to establish the certainty that the family of Napoleon I.
was originally native of that island, i.e. Majorcan.

The article appeared to me so interesting at the time that I
transcribed it, and reproduce it here in an English dress from one
of my old "note-books": —

" A traveller strolling one day through the streets of Palma, on
arriving in front of the Casa Buonaparte was observed by an aged
ecclesiastic, who at the moment was looking out of one of the
windows, to stop suddenly ; and, after surveying the house from base
to roof, contemplate with marked interest the architectural grandeur
of its front

"The bearing of the stranger, no less than the decorations on his
breast, of which one was the crimson ribbon and cross of the Legion
of Honour, indicated him to be a French military officer of
distinguished rank who had passed through the wars of the
Empire.

Too much engrossed with the interesting object of his contemplation,
some moments elapsed before he became conscious that he was
himself an object of marked attention to the venerable ecclesiastic at
the open window, who, as he now caught the less occupied gaze of
the stranger, with a courteous inclination of the head, addressed him
in the French language as follows :—

" ' Your surprise, monsieur, seems great at the architectural beauty
of the facade of this hpuse, and you may with reason consider it
worthy of admiration. But you would admire it yet more if you
knew that it is the house whence issued the progenitors of the man

220 The Gentleman s Magazine.

who has filled the world with his fame, and made his name a proud
title to the admiration and love of your countrymen. If you would
desire to see the interior, I shall be most happy to gratify your wish.
Pray enter ; and I will show you the apartment where the ancestors
of Napoleon were born, and the roof, now blackened by time,
beneath which the life, traditions, and fortunes of his family were
fostered during three centuries.'

" While thus addressed by the venerable and sympathising eccle-
siastic, the manly countenance of the enthusiastic Buonapartist was
lit up with the deep-felt joy and senfiment of thankfulness which the
words and courteous invitation of the speaker had kindled in his
breast. The name of Napoleon, coupled with circumstances of such
local and historical interest, could not other than deeply move him,
dispelling the doubt and uncertainty on the subject of the identity
of that house of which he had received some vague information from
the host of his hotel on the previous evening. As one whom
the bullets of Jena and Mont St. Jean had respected, he felt
privileged in the gratification of his curiosity, courteously accepting
the welcome invitation.

" The officer at once entered the house, and ascended the stone
staircase, at the top of which the ecclesiastic received him with the
most charming geniality of manner. The first object to which he
directed the attention of his visitor was a large, stone-sculptured
armorial shield placed above the door which gave entry into the
spacious salon of the ' Casa Buonaparte. '

"'Look at that escutcheon,' said the priest; 'you will there see
that same eagle that you have beheld gleaming above the standards of
the great man of our age. The eagle was the military insignia which
the Majorcan Buonapartes bore upon their banners and shields ; and
if the armies of Napoleon added thereto the thunderbolt of Jupiter
in the claws of the king of birds, it was to indicate that Napoleon
was the bearer of war's thunder, or rather to announce to the nations
his Imperial apotheosis, after the manner of the emperors of Ancient
Rome. The glory your countrymen have acquired on the battle-
field they owe to Napoleon ; and, as I perceive, you have served
under him for many years. I can comprehend and excuse the pride
you feel at thus being beneath its roof. This is the cradle of his
race !'

" * To dispel any doubt you may have entertained on the subject,
I will here show you a document I am possessed of,' taking it from
an antique carved oaken bookcase, the shelves of which were filled
in compact array with volumes and parchment-bound MSS. ' Here/

Major can Origin of t/ie Family of Buonaparte. 221

said he, 'is the Royal Decree by which, on the 23rd July, 1409,
Martin I., King of Aragon, rewarded the services of Doctor Hugo
Buonaparte, Majorcan, by nominating him Regente (Chief Judiciary
President) of Corsica. That magistrate, born in this very house, is
the direct ancestor of Napoleon, and the first of that family who
established himself in the other island. He it was who there founded
the illustrious stock from which in course of time was to issue the
great man whose war-genius humbled the proudest thrones of conti-
nental Europe.

" ' What I have now told you is furthermore proved by this other
document/ taking from the same compartment of the MSS. another
similarly skin-bound collection of parchments. ' Here you will see the
legal powers given and conferred by the same Regente upon the 27th
May, 1 41 9, to his brother, Bartolome'o Buonaparte, to sell all the
possessions and properties which he had left but still held in Majorca,
and to remit to him the product, by reason of his resolve to remain
and settle definitively in Corsica with the children already borne to him
by his wife, Juana de Saucis. These two documents bear, as you
will perceive, in themselves every authenticity necessary to obtain
and give credit to their contents. They prove that in the
second decennium of the fifteenth century a Buonaparte passed
from Majorca into the Island of Corsica, where he established him-
self and begot children, who became the stock and progenitors of
the Corsican family of the Buonapartes, and of Napoleon.

" ' Now lend me your attention yet a little longer, and listen to this
letter, written to the author of ' The Chronicles of Majorca/ Don
Geronimo Alemany, by a learned Jesuit of the College of Trilingue,
whom various affairs having relation to his society had obliged to
proceed to Corsica : —

" To Senor D. Geronimo de Alemany.

" 'Ajaccio, May 23, 1752.

"'My dear Senor, — Desirous to fulfil the commission that M.
Herarger charged me to execute for you, I visited and searched all
the public archives of this city. As result of my labours, I have to
inform you that from several documents preserved therein it is
attested that the family of Buonaparte, originally from Majorca, first
began here in the person of Hugo Buonaparte, who, was Regente
of this island about the year 141 8, and before whom no similar name
is to be found in Corsica. In further result of my researches, I found
that the sons of that Regente, by name Stephano, Ferdinando, and
Andrea, became persons of distinction ; that they obtained upon

222 The Gentleniatis Magazine.

several occasions offices of mark in the Republic,* in the class of
patricians ; and that since the fifteenth century until the present day
the Buonapartes have been lords of Baetria. I think that this will
suffice to convince you of the identity of the Majorcan and Corsican
families.

" * They are most assuredly one and the same race, if what
M. Herarger has told me on your part be true. But he added before
my departure for Marseilles that the Majorcan house was become
extinct. That of Corsica still subsists, and reckons many members,
of whom Hermanno and Carlos Buonaparte are both established in
Tuscany.

" ' That God, our Lord, may preserve your life, is the prayer of
your Servant and Brother in Jesus Christ,

" * Eusebio Cassar,

" ' Of the Society of Jesus/

" ' Do you not see, monsieur/ said the, venerable ecclesiastic,
' do you not see in that Charles Buonaparte the husband of Laetita
Ramohno, and in both the parents of the First Consul, of the
Emperor and King of Italy ?' v

John Lekjhton, F.S.A.

* Corsica was at this time a dependency of the Genoese Repabfcp.

The Irish Press.

N recent years, whenever the utterances of the Irish press
have been brought under the notice of the English people*
the attention of the public on this side of the Channel has
been directed for the most part to articles which are, in the
opinion of the Irish Executive, calculated to foment discontent, or to
blow into living flame the slumbering ashes of sedition. Though,
however, the titles of the Irishman, and its cheaper edition, the
I$ag of Ireland; the Nation, and its cheaper edition, the Weekly
Ntm, are familiar to the reading public, very few contributors to the
daily and weekly papers in London have ever seen copies of the
Irish M National" journals. They circulate among the Irish resident
in the metropolis ; but are rarely read in the houses of any other
section of the population. It may be further stated, as a somewhat
curious fact, that they are seldom, if ever, seen on the tables of
newspaper editors in the metropolis. It may not, therefore, be unin-
teresting to describe briefly the character of these papers, the wide-
spread and potent influence of which cannot be disregarded; and to
indicate the effect they exercise on the state of Irish political feeling
in its various phases. No one who remembers the deep respect with
which the Roman Catholic clergy were considered some few years
ago by the people constituting their flocks could have possibly antici-
pated the indifference with which their views as political guides are
now received This alteration in sentiment must be attributed in
the main to the effect of the writing in the journalistic organs gene-
rally known in England as " National." Twenty, indeed a dozen years
ago, any one who dared to utter in public a sentence derogatory
to a priest in the south or west of Irelandwould probably have been
the object of a violent assault ; and any one who might have had the
hardihood to inflict any bodily injury on one of the spiritual guides of
the majority of the people would probably have been the victim of
lynch-law as prompt and final as the improvised code under which so
many obnoxious persons were done to death in the earlier days of the
American Republic. The contrast between the state of feeling
indicated and that which now prevails is the most striking which
has ever been presented in the recorded history of any country.
Within a very few years a priest has been burned in effigy ; another

224 The Gentleman's Magazine^

has been struck in the face at a public meeting; while the most
extreme of the "National" organs employ their bitterest satire and
most pungent rhetorical darts to assail men who, like Cardinal
Cullen and tne Roman Catholic Bishop of Kerry, have publicly
denounced the Fenian confederacy as being a secret society.

The Nation, the oldest of the " National " papers, was started in
October, 1842. In a short time it gathered to the ranks of its contri-
butors all the talented young men who advocated the principles of the
National party. Among these the best known at this side of the Chan-
nel are Maurice O'Connell, M.P.John O'Connell, M. P., Charles Gavan
Duffy, and Denis Florence McCarthy. The articles were characterised
by remarkable vigour and beauty of diction, and some of the songs
and other poems published in its columns have in a republished form
taken a standard position in Anglo-Irish literature. Under the title
of " The Spirit of the Nation " these lyrics have attained a wide
popularity, and such songs as " The Battle Eve of the Brigade " and
" Clare's Dragoons," by Thomas Davis, "The Memory of the Dead,"
published anonymously, and " O'Domhnall Abu " (commonly written
O'Donnell Aboo), by M. J. M'Cann, are known through the length
and breadth of the land ; and the knowledge of such pieces forrecita-
tation as " The Geraldines " and " My Grave," and " The Lament of
Owen Roe O'Neill," by Thomas Davis, is equally broadly diffused.
On their first publication, the Quarterly Review described these
metrical selections as possessing great beauty of language and
imagery, and Fraser's Magazine declared that though they' were mis-
chievous it " dared not condemn them, so full were they of beauty."
Mr. Isaac Butt, Q.C., now member of Parliament for Limerick, a
gentleman who at one lime directed the magazine which takes its
name from Ireland's olden university, spoke of them as being
" inspired ;" and the martial tone and spirit of some of the ballads
elicited from the Tablet the expression that they were " the music of
the battle-field." The following is an extract from the preface to the
edition of "The Spirit of the Nation," published in February, 1854 :
— " A new edition of ' The Sphit of the Nation' has been long called
for. It had got so completely out of print that the publishers, after
long inquiry, only obtained a copy accidentally at an auction of
books. Meantime its reputation has been steadily rising, not- only
at home, but in England and America." Francis Jeffrey and Miss
Mitford in England, and Longfellow in America, have written and
spoken of some of the poems with enthusiasm, and a new demand
for them has grown up in both countries. Still more recently the
great Tory periodical quoted above contained a justly laudatory

The Irish Press. 225

notice of some of the poets whose names have been more closely con-
nected with the palmy days of the Nation. The importance of these
metrical effusions in Irish history will be learned from the following
paragraph, taken from the preface to the edition published in 1845 :
— " It (the collected work) was seized on by Ireland's friends as the
first bud of a new season, when manhood, mind, and nationality
would replace submission, hatred, and provincialism. It was paraded
by our foes as the most alarming sign of the decision and confidence
of the National party, and accordingly they arraigned it in the press,
in the meeting, in Parliament, and finally put it on its trial with
O'Connell in 1844."

The Irishman, originally started in Belfast by Mr. Denis Holland
— a native of Cork, whose death in America has been recently an-
nounced— and afterwards transferred to Dublin, has now reached its
fifteenth volume. It is not the purpose of this brief paper to express
any political opinion. It may, however, be stated that some of the
articles published in the Irishman are remarkable for their fervent
eloquence and rhetorical beauty. It will be remembered by all who
have watched the progress of recorded events for the last few ^ears
that Mr. Pigott, the proprietor of the Irishman, was sentenced to
twelve months* imprisonment for inserting an article entitled " The
Holocaust," written on the occasion of the execution of Allen,
Larkin, and Gould, at Manchester, for the murder of Police-sergeant
Brett, in their successful effort to rescue two prisoners accused of
Fenianism. At the trial, the judge, as well as the counsel on both
sides, referred to the exquisite diction which characterised some of
the passages contained in the subject of the indictment.

An extract from a number of the Irishman published in the earlier
half of last month will give some idea of the influence it endeavours
to extend. This is chosen inasmuch as it deals with a subject with
which people on both sides of the Channel have recently become
familiar. This article, from an American correspondent, refers to
the reply of Father Burke, the Dominican Friar, to Mr. Froude, on
Irish history : —

A Roman Catholic priest, we all know, is not a free agent in religious or poli-
tical matters. If we ignore this fact we are unfit to render a verdict in this case.
He may talk as much treason as another man, but nobody but a fool expects him
to rise in revolt or to sanction insurrection like other men. This is the key to
what seems so difficult to some. We attach too much importance to what a priest
says about politics, we seem to doubt the justice of a revolt against tyranny unless
we have the approval of the clergy ; forgetting that priests are commissioned to
preach religion and not politics — that their mission is one of peace, not of war.

We would rather have the opinion of Isaac Butt on a question of law than the

226 The Gentleman's Magazine.

opinion of Cardinal Cullen ; and we would sooner consult Drs. Stokes, Corrigan,
M'Donnell, or Lyons (Irish doctors) on the state of our physical health, than
Drs. Ullathorne, Manning, or Moriarty.

But if it were a question touching our salvation, we (as Catholics) would never
think of applying to a Stokes, or a Corrigan, or an Isaac Butt. Why it should be
different in politics appears to be entirely due to the fact that when priests were
treated as rogues and rapparees, they became the advisers of the people, and
shared their fortunes and their fate. Then the clergy were less opposed to resist-
ance and revolt than they are now. They now enjoy all the liberty they can
desire, while the people are still oppressed by the same tyranny and the same
tyrants that set the same price on the head of a priest and the head of a wolf.
All this, however, is fortunately passing away. The people have learned to think
and to act for themselves in political matters. The words of the priests are no
longer of weight if they are spoken more in the interest of England than of
Ireland. This is well exemplified in the cases of Cardinal Cullen, Dr. Moriarty,
and other eminent ecclesiastics noted for their saintly and holy zeal for the
Catholic Church, but noted also as the enemies of Irish independence. As the
priests of God, every Catholic must hold them in the highest esteem, but as Irish
patriots the humblest peasant in Ireland abhors the political doctrine they
preach.

One feature of Irish daily journalism is perhaps more remarkable
than that of any other newspaper press in the world. It is that in a
country where, even on the returns most favourable to Protestants,
the Roman Catholics constitute something like three-fourths of the
population, all the daily morning papers in Dublin, and most of
the dailies of any importance, are the property of Protestants, and
directed by professors of that creed. And here the fact may be
noted that amidst a gradually diminishing population and a decaying
commerce, there are in Dublin as many daily morning papers as there
are in London — if the organ devoted in the English metropolis to
the interest of a particular trade be excepted — and that there are
more evening papers, if the evening editions of the Dublin morning
journals be considered.

The oldest paper in Ireland is Saunders's News Letter^ the name of
which suggests its early date. It professes what may be called con-
stitutional principles. It has been for years the property of the
Messrs. Potts, by whom large fortunes have been made through the
agency of the journal with which their family name is familiarly asso-
ciated. Of late, doubtless, owing to the high social position which
the family has assumed and the wealth it has accumulated, the
interest of the paper as a commercial undertaking has not been
advanced with the enterprise which characterises the conduct of its
young contemporaries.

The Daily Express may be described as representing the clerical
phases of Protestant opinion ; its tone is always dignified and

The Irish Press. 227

thoughtful, and though one might desire that religious questions
should be discussed in its columns with more impartiality and less
bias, the diction in which its articles are written amply proves that
they are generally indited by men of high culture and unquestionable
ability. Its musical criticisms, written by Sir Robert Stewart,
Mus. Doc, Professor of Music in the University of Dublin, constitute
one of the most attractive sections of Irish journalism.

The Mai/, morning and evening editions of which are published,
although strongly Conservative, differs from the contemporary to
which reference has just been made in advocating the Conservative
cause more from the political than from the religious point of view.
It has been always ably edited, and some well known novelists and
authors in other branches of literature have won their rhetorical
spurs in its columns. It is almost uncompromising in its opposition
to what we may call Liberal opinions as represented by modern
Liberal Governments. Its leading articles are written in a terse and
incisive style — a method of writing which is fully appreciated by
the race which has made rhetorical fencing a distinct branch of
journalistic literature, and almost a trait of national character.

In the " Newspaper Directory " the Irish Times is described as
a Liberal-Conservative newspaper. The phrase as a distinctive
title is so vague that it is unnecessary — indeed it would be
superfluous and redundant — to endeavour to define it. The brief
history of this paper contains the recital of one of the most
remarkable successes ever achieved in the records of journalism.
Its owner — a gentleman connected by lineage with several noble
families in Ireland — though having no previous training calculated to
lead a newspaper to profit — no mean undertaking — showed after a
time that he was able and willing to abandon social aristocracy to
take his own part in the Republic of Letters. Those who have
studied the vicissitudes of journalistic enterprise know well the diffi-
culties through which a newly started paper has to pass before
it reaches not only vigorous manhood but — so to speak — healthy
infancy. Perhaps there is no more astonishing phenomenon in the
history of modern commerce than that men of capital should start
newspapers. It is perhaps the only kind of speculation in which a
man voluntarily invests his money without the slightest hope of
receiving any return until several years have passed away. Even the
association of the name of Charles Dickens with the most sober and
impartial of English journals was not potent enough to secure its
success ; and the name of the Morning Chronicle departed from
literature a few years after it was believed that it would remain a

228 The Gentleman's Magazine.

feature of English journalism as long as the Houses of Lords and
Commons were to legislate for the United Kingdom. The tentative
experience of many years is necessary before the organiser of a
newspaper can gauge the feeling of the constituents to which he
addresses himself. In this respect the proprietor of the Irish Times
has made himself a conspicuous exception. In these days no project
in journalism — indeed it may be said in anything — can secure a
prosperous result unless it be promoted with commercial courage. To
the exercise of this quality the proprietor of the Irish Times may
attribute the position of the journal with which his name in Ireland
is now identified. Struggling at first against the obstacles which
normally oppose the progress of a newly-established newspaper, he
soon showed by his commercial activity that he was determined to
prove that a daily paper in Ireland might be able to rival its com-
petitors in its own land, though they had the valuable advantage of
older age. It is not necessary in this place to specify the various
stages through which the Irish Times has passed, but it may not be
amiss to indicate briefly the literary machinery through which its
present position is maintained. The general staff comprises as
many employes as most of the daily London newspapers, and if
the room for printers and machinery is somewhat circumscribed, the
economy of space has been carefully and exactly calculated so that
the greatest amount of work is done within the smallest circum-
ference. Though classics and journalism may not seem to have any-
thing in common, in this case the aptitude for the one has proved
indirectly the capacity for the other. This observation will be more
readily understood when the fact is adduced that the Rev. G. W.
Wheeler, M.A., well known in academic circles in Ireland as the
annotative editor of several Greek and Latin classics, has been the
editor of the Irish Times almost since its beginning. The " Con-
tinental Gossip" from Paris, by Major Massey, a gentleman
connected with several aristocratic families in the south of Ireland,
is written in such a lively and brilliant style that some surprise
has been expressed that the "special" of the Irish Times has
not appeared in some higher walk of literature. The London
correspondence is supplied by Mr. J. H. Doyle, one of the most
active and experienced members of the press in the metropolis.
Its staff of printers and machine hands is nearly equal in number
to that of any English daily journal. Regarding its circulation
relatively with the numbers issued of the other Dublin " dailies,"
it is not the purpose of this brief article to give an opinion. Indeed
the subject of superiority in this respect has been recently the cause

The Irish Press. 229

of a rhetorical duello between the Irish Times and the Freeman's
Journal, the battle being a drawn one, so far at all events as the
public are enabled to judge. The Irish Times is the only Dublin daily
which publishes a sheet of eight pages. The enterprise of the pro-
prietor is further demonstrated by his establishment of a brass band
consisting of youths who are being trained as compositors. When
they play at concerts or other entertainments they appear in hand-
some uniforms under the direction of their own bandmaster. Indeed,
the Irish Times band has become one of the institutions of Dublin,
and its services are always available — even at the sacrifice of the
results of their ordinary labour — whenever the cause of charity can
be promoted by its performance. A servants' agency also forms
part of the system organised by the proprietor for the advancement of
the journal which he so energetically promotes.

However the question of circulation may be decided, it is un-
questionable that as an organ of opinion the Freeman's Journal
appeals to the sympathies of the greatest number. This will be
readily understood when it is stated that it advocates Catholic opinion
in the sense in which it is understood in Ireland — that is to say^
Ultramontane politics. In further illustration of the statement
that the Dublin press is directed by Protestant promoters, it may be
stated as a curiosity of journalistic literature that the Freeman's
Journal— the representative organ of the extreme Catholic party —
is the property of a Protestant, Sir John Gray. This gentleman, how-
ever, has always strenuously advocated the cause of Ireland, as it is
understood by the majority of the people. He was the friend and
fellow prisoner of O'Connell, at whose skirt — to use his own words
recently delivered — he first entered public life. In England
Sir John. Gray is best known as having made the motion on
the subject of the Irish Church which may be designated as the
precursor of the destruction of that institution. The Freeman's
leading articles are written in a vigorous style and with uncompromis-
ing devotion to the cause it endeavours to promote. From time to
time articles said to have been inspired by members of Liberal
Governments have appeared in its columns. While the circulation
of the other journals is principally local, the Freeman's Journal is read
in every place where Irish people dwell, so that its influence may be
said to extend to the limits of the habitable globe.

Evening editions are published by the Mail, the Express, and

the Irish Times. There are, besides, two evening papers — similar

to the Pall Mall Gazette and the Globe in England, inasmuch as they

have no morning editions — the Evening Telegraph, issued from the

Vol. X., N.S. 1873. R

230 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Freeman office, and the Evening Post. No other portion of the Dublin
press demands notice in this place; the character of the other journals
can be easily obtained from a newspaper directory. There is, however,
another paper in Ireland which may be cited among the curiosities
of journalistic literature. This is the Limerick Chronicle, with which
is identified one of the most respected families connected with
the city whose name the paper, bears. Its peculiarity, until
recently, consisted in its military news, which was the freshest and
fullest to be found in any paper in the United Kingdom. Indeed,
at one time it was quoted in the English journals, and it was a saying
that commandants of garrisons often learned their prospective move-
ments from the Limerick Chronicle before they received any orders
respecting them from the Horse Guards. Even now, though the
Dublin daily papers reach Limerick early in the day, the Limerick
Chronicle holds its own as a commercial speculation. It seldom
inserts editorial articles; but this defect — if, indeed, it be one — is
amply supplied by the able and tasteful manner in which it is sub-
edited.

To sum up briefly the contents of this article — suggesting some
peculiarities of the Irish press — it may be said that the Irish National
press has done much to estrange the people in Ireland from the
priests; that almost every influential paper in the sister island is
directed by Protestants; and that the daily press of Dublin enumerates
as many representatives as the daily press in London.

T. F. O'DONNELL.

TABLE TALK.

BY SYLVANUS URBAN, GENTLEMAN.

On the 9th of January, a few minutes before eleven in the forenoon,
Napoleon III. breathed his last The event was forthwith com-
municated to the world, and we were not only startled at the
news, but the cloud of misfortune being cleared away by Death,
we all of us became aware that the late Emperor stood in the foremost
rank of great men. Napoleon died in exile, and at the age of sixty-
five ; but if, like his favourite hero, Julius Caesar, he had been assas-
sinated in the meridian of his power and in the vigour of his man-
hood, the sensation caused by his death could hardly have been more
profound. Perhaps the dust of a century must rest upon his tomb
before he will be fairly estimated, for the Muse of History disdains
the story that wears the gloss of novelty. The excitement coincident
to his death, however, shows that he will have a niche in the Temple of
Fame that would have satisfied the most voracious ambition. But
•what would have most gratified the late Emperor, if he could have
had a prevision of the talk of mankind on the morrow of his death,
was that in France, his native land, in Italy, the land he redeemed from
bondage, and in England, the land he loved with the love of an
adopted son, he was kindly remembered. Nor is the death of the
exiled Emperor an unimportant event. His late sorrows had to
some extent made Imperialism and his dynasty unpopular in France.
A people covetous of military glory could not forgive the fatal
field of Sedan. They did not remember the twenty years of pros-
perity, but even a section of devoted Imperialists held that the Prince
who had surrendered his sword to the German victor could not again
be the ruling Emperor of the French. Napoleon III. is dead, and an
obstruction to the restoration of the Empire is removed. Napoleon IV.
is too young to be responsible for the troubles of the Empire. He
is so young that he may live to give the word of command when
France is ready for the war of vengeance. While Napoleon III.
lived the restoration of the Empire was well nigh impossible, but
now no one who is conversant with French affairs will say that
it is impossible. It was not the political consequences that

232 The Gentleman s Magazine.

men thought of when they heard of the death of Napoleon III.
They thought of his wonderful career — an exile in boyhood, a for-
lorn adventurer in his early manhood, the prisoner of Ham, the
refugee in England, the Prince President, the Emperor of the French,
the arbiter of peace and war, the ally of England in the Crimean
war, the hero of the Italian war, and once more an exile in England.
And throughout this career Napoleon bore himself as became
a king of men. In prosperity never unduly exultant, in adver-
sity ever calm, he had often manifested an intrepid bearing in
moments of danger, and amidst the horrors of Sedan men mar-
velled at the fearless demeanour of the unfortunate and suffering
Emperor. It is admitted that he rendered splendid service to the
cause of human progress. He might have fought Germany in 1864,
and triumphed, but his triumph would have postponed the unity of
Germany ; and posterity will not blame him for hoping to keep up
the position of France without deluging Europe with blood. His
Mexican expedition was a mistake ; but success might have been a
blessing to that country. When his death was announced to the
Italian Chamber, there was a grateful acknowledgment that he had
by his advice and by his prowess emancipated Italy. After centuries
of hostility, he united England and France in the bonds of amity.
There is something touching in his staunch and enduring friendship
for our country. He offended his subjects rather than relax that
friendship, and adopted a policy of free trade beneficial to both
countries, though it was not popular in France. About his private
character there is to be said that his wife and son were devoted to
him, and no man ever had more loving friends. Their affection was
not less ardent when he was in exile, and when he died they
grieved with warm and irrepressible grief. He was human. He had
faults and failings, but his virtues were grand and conspicuous.
Take him altogether, he was the greatest man of our times, and though
dying in exile it is not surprising that his death has engaged the
attention and thought of the world.

In these high-pressure days it is gratifying to see an author
stepping aside from general work to set up a literary monument,
however small, by which he would desire to be remembered. I have
myself had these fits of longing to live in the future, to be known
and to be read long after the weeds have buried the plain slab with
him in whose memory it was once set up fresh and new. I fancy
Blanchard Jerrold was influenced by some sentiment of this kind

Table Talk. 233

when he wrote " The Christian Vagabond," which he contributed
some time since to my pages. It is an earnest and worthy perform-
ance, and I am glad to receive the work in book form, nicely printed
and embellished with characteristic illustrations by the author him-
" self. " The Christian Vagabond " strikes the key-note of the best
and holiest impulses of the human heart.

Dr. Shea, of New York, has been engaged for a considerable time
in an investigation of the names of the States, in their origin and
significance. He has set forth the result in an " Historical Record,"
from which I gather some very curious information. Some of our
educationists will do well to revise their books on geography from
these new facts. Alabama is from the name of the tribe originally
written Alibamon by the French. The late Rev. Mr. Byington, an
accomplished Choctaw scholar, sustained the earlier French by
making the Alibamons to be Choctaws, and he ridiculed the transla-
tion, Here we rest ; or, the land of rest. Mississippi is not Choctaw or
Natchez at all. The name first reached the French missionaries and
voyageurs through the northern Algonquin tribes, and is clearly
intelligible in their languages. Missi or Michi means great ; sipi,
river; so that it simply means great river, a derivation supported
by the Greek. The Ottawa was called Kichisipi, a great river;
and Colonel Pichlynn, a very intelligent Shawnee, when asked
by the late Buckingham Smith the meaning of Chesapeake, at
once said Kichi-sipik — place of the great water. Arkansas is written
in early French documents Alkansas, so that the French word
arc certainly did not enter it, and such compounds are not in the
style of the French. Alkansas or Arkansas was the name given
by the Algonquins tribe to the nation calling themselves Quappas.
Kentucky is by Algonquin scholars interpreted like Connecticut — the
long river. Ohio is not a Shawnee word, or a word in any Algonquin
dialect. It is pure Iroquois, like Ontario, and means, in Iroquois,
beautiful river. Michigan is Michi, great; and gami, lake, in Algon-
quin, and is given in an early French Illinois dictionary. As earliest
given it is Michigami. Illinois is not a compound of Indian and
French, but a Canadian-French attempt to express the word Illiniwek,
which in Algonquin is a verbal form, " We are men." The wek
gradually got written ois> pronounced way> or nearly so. We say
Illy-noy ; but the French said Uleen-way, and the Indians Illeen-week.
Wisconsin arises from a misprint ; all the early French documents
have Ouisconsing, or Misconsing, and this seems to come from Miscosi

234 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

it is red. Wishcons may mean a small beaver lodge. Missouri is a
name first given in Marquette's journal, and evidently Algonquin.
In an Illinois dictionary the meaning given is Canoe. In Baraga's
dictionary, for // is muddy, he gives ajishkiwika, but no word like
Missouri. Iowa is written at first Aioues, and was applied to a tribe
of Indians, and would seem to be simply Ajawa — across, beyond, as
if to say the tribe beyond the river. With this we may compare the
term Hebrews, so called from having crossed over into another
country, from the Euphrates. Texas was a name applied to a con-
federacy, and is said by Morfi, in his " Manuscript History of
Texas," to mean Friends.

There is no data upon which to form a reliable account of the
origin of billiards. Dr. Johnson gives reasons for believing that the
game had its birth in England. Todd argues that billiards originated
in France. Strutt, who is an excellent authority on "Sports and
Pastimes," believes billiards to be merely the game of paille-maille
transferred from the ground to the table, and concerning which
" Cavendish " gave an illustration in the first volume of my " entirely
new series." Billiards superseded shovel-board. In 1674 a billiard
table had six pockets. The bed of the table was made of oak, and
the cushions were stuffed with " fine flax or cotton." Maces, not
cues, were used, made of some weighty wood and tipped with ivory.
The peculiarity of the game consisted in the use of a small arch of
ivory, called the " port " (placed where the pyramid spot now stands),
and of an ivory peg or " king," placed at the opposite end of the
table. Two balls were used, and the game played was the white-
winning game (single pool), five up by day-light, three by candle-light
Beyond the " lives " scores were counted appertaining to passing the
port or to touching the king. " French billiards," which was essentially
single pool, was next introduced. " Carambole," the precursor of
billiards as now played in England, was the next advance in the game.
" Curiously enough, the French have of late years entirely discarded
pockets, playing only cannons : and what was formerly the French
game is now called the English game." Up to 1810 the development
of the game was very slow ; soon after this date the introduction of cue-
playing, leathern tips and chalk, side-strokes, and improvements in
tables caused quite a revolution in the science of billiards. A man
named Bentley, proprietor of a billiard room at Bath, discovered the
side-stroke ; and May, a billiard table keeper, first popularised the
spot When Cook became the champion player of England he
eclipsed all previous scores, making breaks of 417 (137 spots), 447

Table Talk. 235

(138 spots), 512 (167 spots, a cannon intervening), 531, and 752
(220 spots, two all-round breaks intervening). Next to Cook, Joseph
Bennett has made the largest break on record — viz., 510 off the balls,
including 149 consecutive spots. At present Cook is champion, and
for some time to come there is every reason to believe that the holder
of the cup will be found in either Cook, Bennett, or Roberts, jun.,
who are the three leading players of billiards. I gather these
interesting notes from a new book on billiards, by Joseph Bennett,
edited by " Cavendish," and published by De la Rue and Co. This
work, for the first time it seems to me, reduces the game to a complete
and comprehensive system. " Cavendish " has shown a remarkable
capacity in other directions for harmonising and working out general
principles; with the aid of a finished player, he has brought his theory
of a systematic treatise to a practical issue. The new billiard book
must become a necessary companion to those who study the game
scientifically.

Who shall write the Life of Ix>rd Lytton, as that of Dickens is
being written by his friend John Forster ? I cannot think of any man
who has lived in the midst of us down to these last days whose
biography would make so varied and so intensely interesting a
story of high literary and political life during the last half century.
Dickens was always a lion among men of letters ; Thackeray was a
constant attendant at clubs, and haunted the studios of artists ; but
the author of "The Caxtons," "The Lady of Lyons," and "King
Arthur" — the poet, the pamphleteer, the novelist, the Whig poli-
tician, the Tory statesman, the peer : the man who from the begin-
ning of his career was behind the scenes in every phase of public
life — political, literary, dramatic, artistic, diplomatic, aristocratic,
Bohemian, or whatever else — during a period covering the life of two
of three generations, must have left behind him the materials of a
biographical work hardly less attractive than his most successful
book or his most famous play. His letters, his memoranda, his
rough literary sketches, his diary, if he has left one, the materials of
autobiography whereof we shall most likely hear very soon-
will make one of the most popular books of the next ten years.
And what if it should contain 4 private revelations ? There are
domestic passages in the biography of Dickens which the world is
expecting shortly to hear narrated. A mystery as yet unrevealed
hangs over the home experience of Thackeray. Already the con-
temporaries of the author of " Pelham" have been shown a little way

236 The Gentleman s Magazine.

behind the scenes of his married life. Will anything more be told >
will misconceptions be removed ; will the story as it stands be con-
firmed; or will not a word be added to the imperfect picture?
But first we are all looking for the posthumous novel, "Opinions of
Kenelm Chillingley, "which happily received the author's own finishing
touches before he died. In that he was able to set his seal to the
last of his numerous works he was so much more fortunate than
Thackeray, Dickens, or Macaulay. The novel must be great to add
to his fame. When will England produce another to perform high-
class work in so many and such varied fields of intellectual activity ?

Few more interesting controversies, both in a literary and an historical
point of view, have ever arisen than the discussion which has recently
been carried on respecting the authenticity and genuineness of the
Swiss legend in which the archery feats of William Tell are described.
The object of this brief note is not to attempt to settle the dispute,
but merely to state that the story has penetrated the Arctic circle.
In the metrical traditions of Lapland and Russian Karelia all the lead-
ing particulars in the life of the Swiss hero are closely reproduced —
unless, indeed, the story be of Northern origin. In Lapland literature
it is varied, so that the son is the active, and the father the passive,
personage in the tale. The latter has been taken captive by a band
of Finn marauders. The former — a boy twelve years of age —
threatens the party with his bow from a position of safety on the
other side of a lake. The captors, dreading his skill, promise the
father's liberty on a condition similar to that related in the Swiss
legend. "Raise one hand and sink the other, for the water will
attract the arrow," is the father's advice. The apple is duly cloven,
and the father released. The incident of the jump from the boat
is also recited ; and the northern locality specified as distinctly as
the Lucerne of Swiss history. The legend in this form was dis-
covered about thirty years ago by Mathias Alexander Castren, a
native of Finland. In the Finnish and Lappish metrical writings he
also discovered the leading particulars of the adventure of Ulysses
with the Cyclops. From what original source — says a reviewer of
Castren's work — or through what channels these traditions have tra-
velled, it is probably vain to inquire or dispute : the triumph of
courage over numbers, of policy over brute force, has its charm for
the rudest nations, and from Jack the Giant Killer to William Tell
the key-note of the strain is ever the same.

THE

Gentleman's Magazine

March, 1873.

Clytie.

A Novel of Modern Life.
BY JOSEPH HATTON.

CHAPTER I.

ON THE BRINK.

(WO men loved her. One was rich ; the other poor.
Her whole life was influenced by an accident, a mistake,
a misunderstanding, a calumny. They who loved her
most were her detractors. Sometimes our best friends
are the first to be deceived by appearances which belie us.

Tom Mayfield gave her the name of Clytie even before he had
spoken to her ; she was so round and dimply, and had such wavy
hair, and such brown tender eyes, and was altogether so much like the
popular statuette of the goddess who was changed into a sunflower
for very love. Tom Mayfield was a student in Dunelm University,
and he saw Clytie first at a boat-race on the Wear. She was accom-
l>anied by her grandfather, the organist of St. Bride's, with whom Tom
speedily made friends, that he might have facilities for wooing this
belle of the cathedral city.

Tom had already a rival before he had the right to regard any
man as his opponent Love's shadows of doubt and fear had fallen
upon him before his sun of hope could even be said to have risen.
Tom was poor. Philip Ransford was rich. Tom was a pale-
faced student, and burnt the midnight oil over hard tasks that
were his battles for wealth and fame. Philip Ransford was a big,
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. s

238 The Gentleman 's Magazine.

•

burly fellow, who followed the hounds, belonged to London Clubs,
kept a yacht, and was the son of James Ransford, whose cotton
factories manufactured money with a daily regularity that at any
moment could be made into a sum and reckoned up to the closest
nicety.

When Philip Ransford learnt that Tom Mayfield was a frequent
visitor at the organist's pretty little house in the Bailey, he swore
with his fist clenched that he would ride over Tom in the street, or
brain him with his whip-handle.

" Calls her Clytie, does he?" Phil muttered, as he strode along the
Bailey on a summer's evening, after a day's salmon fishing up the
river; " I'll Clytie him !"

It was glorious to see the sun finding out the moss and lichens in
that dull street which echoed the footsteps of Clyde's swashbuckling
lover. The quaint gables of St. Bride's flung purple shadows over
the road, and the great Cathedral towers rose up strong and bold
against the red sky. On one side of the street a high wall shut in the
Cathedral Close and St. Bride's ; on the other the back entrances of
some dozen houses opposed the gloom of the mossy wall ; but now
and then you had a peep of paradise, for the fronts of the houses
looked out upon the Wear, and here and there a door was open,
showing a long vista of lawn and garden, of tree and river, and of
distant hills cold and blue, in contrast with the red of the sun which
set behind St. Cuthbert's towers. Farther down the street called the
Bailey, as you came to a bend of the way, an arch closed the road.
It seemed to be filled with a picture of laburnum, lilac, and elm, with
a bit of balustrade and a shimmering glimpse of river. This was an
outlet into the Banks, separated from the Bailey by the Prebend's
Bridge, on which Tom Mayfield first saw Clytie, who lived within
the Bailey, and a few yards on this side of that lovely picture of
laburnum, lilac, and elm framed in the crumbling old archway of
Prebend's Bridge.

The Hermitage'was a small house. It was hard to divine how it
had come to find a place among the fine houses which were built on
either side of it, with gardens sloping down to the beautiful northern
river. It was rented at only twenty-five pounds a year; but it
belonged to the Dean and Chapter, and they were very particular
about their tenants. Indeed, it was looked upon as a patent of
respectability to be allowed to rent the Hermitage. Old Luke
Waller, when he arrived in Dunelm with his grandchild, then an
infant of six, brought a special letter of introduction to the Dean
from a noble lord, through whose influence he had been appointed

Clytie. 239

organist of St. Bride's, at the handsome salary of two hundred a year,
one hundred and fifty of which came out of his lordship's purse,
unknown to Luke Waller, whose antecedents were a complete blank
to the citizens of Dunelm.

Luke had a history that would have astonished the ancient city
of St Cuthbert. Sometimes when he was playing the voluntary at
church, and* thinking of the past, he got his story mixed up in the
music, and found himself wandering in imagination through the
streets of London. It had been necessary on several occasions for
the parson to send a message round to the organ-loft to stop the
musical reverie with which he was accompanying his reminiscences.
On these occasions Luke Waller would suddenly pull himself
together and go through the service with an earnestness that lent
additional charms to the quiet simplicity which marked the ortho-
doxy of St. Bride's. But he would go back again with Clytie when
the church was empty, loc1-. the doors, get the girl to blow for him
(it was a small organ, and she delighted in the work), and play out
his dream. He was a strange old man — a tottering, grey-headed
old man, with almost a youthful blue eye, white teeth, and cheeks
like the streaky side of an old-fashioned apple, red and wrinkly.
Life to him was a daily devotion to the happiness of his grand-
daughter, Mary, or Clytie, as I have re-christened her in deference to
the poetic fancy of Tom Mayfield, and for some suggestiveness in
the name which may be justified hereafter.

Phil Ransford entered the Hermitage on this summer evening of
my story, with his fishing tackle and a creel containing a brace of
salmon, which in all their red and silvery beauty he laid on a bed of
grass before Luke and Clytie.

" Those are fine fish," said Mr. Waller.

" I brought them for your acceptance, if you will oblige me," said
Phil.

Clytie looked up admiringly at Phil's manly figure, and smiled
with a quiet satisfaction.

" Thank you," said the old man — "thank you, Mr. Ransford; one
will be quite enough for us."

" You can pickle the other," said Phil ; " your cook is up to that,
I suppose, eh, Miss Waller ?"

" Oh, yes," said Clytie.

" Yes, she can cook," said Mr. Waller ; " that must be said in her
favour."

Phil had sat down, and laid his fishing-rod in a corner of the

room.

s 2

240 The Gentlematis Magazitte.

" You are tired," said Luke Waller*; but there was little or no sym-
pathy in the remark.

" I am, and hungry. I very nearly took that first fish into a public
on the river and had a steak cut out of him ; but I thought a brace
of salmon would look far better at the Hermitage. "
, Although the organist did not much care for Phil Ransford's
society, he could not well resist a hint so pointedly given.

" Have one cut now — stay and sup with us," said the old man.

"I should just be in time for dinner at home," said Phil; "but
salmon cutlets and Hermitage society ! — Mr. Waller, I accept your
most kind invitation."

" That is well," said the old man. " Mary, my love, order the
supper."

Phil Ransford watched the young lady as she left the room, and
Clytie answered his admiring gaze with a look of conscious triumph.
There was hardly a girl in Dunelm who would not have accepted
Phil Ransford as a lover. He was even freely admitted to the
Cathedral society. Educated at Harrow and Cambridge, young
Ransford had a double claim to recognition. He had received the
traditional training of a gentleman, and was rich ; he excelled in
manly sports, danced like an angel according to several flighty
young things of forty, was a member of the Reform, and would
some day, if he chose, sit in the House of Commons. Luke Waller
was therefore somewhat flattered at Mr. Ransford's attentions, and
Clytie encouraged them, because she rather enjoyed the jealousy
and spitefulness of the Cathedral set who systematically kept her
out of the society of the Close. But old Waller never left Ransford
and Clytie alone; he had twice refused to allow Phil to see her
home from those outside evening parties at which they occasionally
met ; but he had not been able to prevent Phil Ransford from
stopping her now and then in the quiet old streets, and talking to
her. Dunelm was such a dear silent old city that two people might
step aside into an odd nook or corner, in the shadow of an old
archway, or beneath an old tree, and talk to each other for an hour
without being seen by any one. But it was enough for the old city
if the gossips or lovers were seen by one person ; the incident was
soon reported ; it was not necessary to employ the town crier, though
Dunelm went to the expense of having such an officer. Phil Rans-
ford frequently flung himself in the way of Clytie, and Tom Mayfield
was jealous of him. Ransford had six months' start of the young
student. He made a sort of declaration of love to the lady four
weeks before that vision of beauty appeared to Tom, recalling to his

Clytie. 24 1

fancy his favourite bust of Clytie which was the only ornament in
his little room near St. Cuthbert's gateway, where they rested the
mythical bones of the patron saint in the mythical days oY old.

CHAPTER II.

"friends or foes?''

" I love you," said Tom Mayfield. " You round, bewitching
l)eauty ; if you will only be mine / will never desert you, like the fool
in the story."

He was addressing a large Parian bust of Clytie. It stood upon
his table amidst a pile of books and examination papers.

" I am not rich like that coarse, vulgar Ransford ; but I have a
heart that is true and faithful ; I never loved before ; I have an inde-
pendent income of two hundred a year ; I am an orphan ; I mean to
go to the Bar, and with you by my side I will make a name and for-
tune. "

He moved the bust round and put his hand upon it.

" My dear Clytie ! I am only twenty-two. They tell me you are
seventeen. Our ages fit admirably. The man should be a few years
older than the woman. I am sufficiently romantic to be an interest-
ing lover, but a practical fellow for all that. I should take care of
you and protect you; and I should be proud of you. I want no
money with you, and your dear old grandfather shall always have a
seat in the ingle-nook."

The light fell upon the statue ; fell tenderly upon the wavy hair ;
upon the full round bosom. Tom Mayfield looked at it and
sighed.

" Let me see," he said, taking up a copy of Lempriere, " who were
you in the classic days? A daughter of Oceanus and Tethys,
beloved by Apollo, who deserted you for Leucothea. You pined
away and were changed into a sunflower, and you still turn to the sun
as in pledge of your love. Turn to me, my dear Clytie ! Let me be
your sun ; I will always shine upon you, always be warm and gentle
and loving."

He moved the figure again, that he might contemplate the three-
quarter face.

" Upon my soul it is a marvellous likeness ! What a lovely, dreamy
face it is ! "

Then he turned over again the pages of the dictionary.

" There was another Clytie. What ! A concubine of Amyntor,

24.2 The GentUrnatis Magazine.

son of Phrastor, whose calumny caused Amyntor to put out the
eyes of his falsely accused son Phoenix ! "

The young student took up a pen and blotted from the book all
the other Clyties except the one beloved of Apollo.

" A concubine indeed ! Perish the thought Heaven would not
permit it. But they call Ransford a woman-killer. They say he is a
very gay fellow in town ; they say he lured that pretty daughter of
old Pirn the verger to London. Yes, now I remember the story ; it
killed the old man."

He paced the room.

" Why do these dark thoughts come into my mind just now ? A
hint of suspicion, even in fancy, is an insult to her. My very soul
blushes at it By heavens, if Ransford harboured a dishonourable
thought against her I would kill him like a dog ! "

A knock at the door.

" Mr. Philip Ransford," said the servant.

Tom May field started and rubbed his eyes as if he were in a
dream.

" You are surprised to see me," said Phil.

Tom did not speak.

" You are more than surprised ; my visit does not seem agreeable
to you."

" Pray forgive me," said the student, recovering his self-possession.
"My mind was taken up just then with a very knotty and curious
question."

" Ah, a problem in Euclid ? "

" No ; a supposititious incident cropping up out of a classical story.
Take a seat, Mr. Ransford."

" May I smoke ? " asked Phil, producing a cigar case.

" By all means ; I will light up too."

Tom filled his favourite meerschaum ; Phil Ransford lighted a
cigar.

" I ventured to call as I was passing to ask if you would come
and dine with us to-morrow; I expect a friend or two in a quiet way —
not a dinner party, you know — would have done the formal thing, but
you said you were not a stickler for ceremonies when I met you at the
Deans the other evening, and, as I saw your lamp gleaming out and
attracting all the moths in the Green to your window, I determined
all in a minute to drop in upon you."

" Very kind of you," said Tom. " I will come ; I was thinking of
you when you knocked at the door. Do you believe in spiritualism?"

" No."

Clytie. 243

" Nor I." .

" Why do you ask ? "

" Don't know. How do you account for those startling coinci-
dences which occur to all of us? For example, the moment you were
near my rooms I began to think of you. It was curious that you
should step in just as I was registering a sort of vow concerning you."

" Concerning me? a vow?" said Mr. Ransford, taking his cigar from
his mouth.

" Yes," said Tom Mayfield, smoking steadily. " Odd, is it not, and
I have only known you about six weeks ? "

"Are you joking?"

"No," said Tom, "you have no idea what an interest I take in
you."

" And you were thinking of me the moment I entered ? "

" I was."

" Did I form part of the problem you were trying to solve ? n

" You did."

Phil Ransford smiled and relighted his cigar with affected calm-
ness. Tom Mayfield looked straight at him with a quiet com-
posure, but not unkindly.

"Will yoiuexplain ? " said Mr. Ransford.

" Some other time," said Tom Mayfield.

" No time like the present," replied Phil, who mentally measured
his own strength against Tom's, and felt that the odds were in his
favour.

" Some other time," said Tom firmly. " At what hour do you dine?"

" Six ; but look here, don't you know, there is something in your
manner which is mysterious and not altogether friendly — let us
understand each other."

" We do, perfectly, my dear friend," said Tom, knocking the ashes
from his pipe. " And I hope we shall be good friends ; they tell me
your wine is even finer than the Dean's. Did I not see you starting
on a fishing excursion this morning?"

"You did. I called on old Waller as I came back, and emptied
my creel at the Hermitage."

Tom winced, but the smoke hid his face sufficiently to prevent
Phil Ransford from noticing the effect of his shot

"Ah, you visit at the Hermitage?"

" Occasionally."

" What will you drink ?"

" Nothing, thank you."

" Sure ! Have some claret ?"

244 The Gmtlemans Magazine.

" No, thank you ; I must get home. I will not keep you from your
studies any longer. I used to burn the midnight oil myself. Good
night. To-morrow at six, then, I shall have the pleasure of seeing
you ?"

" Thank you, yes," said Tom. " Good night."

" I must not be rash," said Tom, when he had shut the door. " I
don't like him, Clytie ! I register that vow in thy name !"

" Humph !" grunted Phil Ransford, as he strode over the Green,
" that was the bust on his table. It's devilish like; never saw such a
portrait He was thinking of me, was he ? And was thinking what
might be the result of a supposititious incident in real life. There was
an ugly look in his eyes. Ah ! ah ! He's as jealous as a Turk, and
without the right to be. She says she has only spoken to him twice.
We shall see what we shall see. I'll either be friend or foe, whichever
lie likes. Heaven help him if he shows fight. I'll soon make Dunelm
too hot for him ! — or London either, for that matter — damned
pauper !''

«

CHAPTER III.

IN THE ORGAN LOFT.

Tom Mayfieij) made the acquaintance of the Ransford family at
dinner, as arranged. They were good sort of people in their way,
l>elieved in money, and were at the same time proud of Phil having
worn a gown. It was absolutely necessary that you should have done
so, to get into the inner circle of Dunelm society. When you did
get there, it was not much to boast of; still, it was the thing to be
there, and the Dean was a grand old boy who understood the secret
of dining, and knew by heart and taste the best port wine vintages.

Phil Ransford had a father and mother and some brothers and
sisters, but it is not necessary to introduce them here. They treated
Tom Mayfield with deference and respect ; he had a way of com-
manding both, and especially when Money stood up and challenged
Intellect. Phil was courteous and hospitable, and politely considerate
in his attentions to the young student.

"Why is she not invited to his house?" Tom asked himself,
as he walked to his chambers from the big house on the hilL " Why
do not his sisters call upon her ? She is the granddaughter of a pro-
fessional man. Old Waller is clever too, behaves himself like a
gentleman, dines now and then with the Dean, was introduced to the
Dean and Chapter by a lord."

Tom puzzled himself with a variety of questions all the way home,
and when he got there he again addressed himself to Clytie.

Clyhc. 245

" Well, madame, I've been to his house ; it is a fine place, lots of
old oak furniture and pictures, expensive pictures — very bad though,
some of them ; vulgar old dog his father ; thinks money everything ;
but they all think that ; I quoted a few great men who were noto-
riously poor ; but Phil Ransford would be friends."

Tom lighted his pipe and drew down the blinds.

" You don't think money can do everything ? Do you, my love ?
I shall ask you in person soon. I am going to be rash, because I
love you very much. I only went to that Cotton house to see what
he was like at home, to study him, to find him out ; and I do not
like him, Clytie ; no, my dear girl, he is not what we men call straight.
You have not been to his house. Mrs. Ransford does not know you ;
the Misses Ransford don't — I asked them. They do not think you
are beautiful ; they professed not even to think you pretty ; they had
seen you often, oh, yes, at the Cathedral and at St. Bride's ; it is Sunday
to-morrow, and I shall be at your church in the morning, and I shall
walk home with you — if possible."

The next day was a hot, lazy summer Sunday. All nature seemed
to be resting. The bells which chimed for service sounded as if they
were dressed up in their Sunday clothes, and only leaned upon their
elbows and simpered what they had to say. The sun slept on the
river, hot and rosy, like an infant. The water lay tranquilly beneath the
trees. Shadows of towers and gables and moss-covered walls fell
here and there, brown and motionless. The only stir seemed to be
a sort of sunny pulsation of the air. The birds were still. A bee
or butterfly might be seen poised on an open flower. The laburnum
and lilac near the archway of the Prebend's Bridge seemed to swoon
with happiness in the glowing light. It was a day for love and
worship, for dreaming, for sitting in the shade of the Banks, for
standing inside the Cathedral porch and listening to the choristers,
for doing nothing, and doing that lazily.

Tom Mayfield went to St Bride's on that summer Sunday morning,
and Luke Waller had one of his musical dreams in the opening
voluntary. When service was over, Tom went straight to the organ-
loft The organist was playing the congregation out When the last
footfall was heard, the blower, hot and tired, began to let the wind
run down.

" Go on," said Tom, slipping a shilling into his hand.

" All right," said the man, and up went the indicator.

The organist turned and with a pleasant smile recognised the young
student.

" Don't get up, sir," said Tom ; " pray go on. You are just in the
vein. It is a lovely bit of harmonisation."

246 The Gentleman 's Magazine.

The old man was pleased. His fingers pressed the ivory keys with
a loving fondness. It seemed as if he caressed them, and they
responded with tender voices. The music wandered about the old
church, laden with the scent of lilac that crept in from an adjacent
garden. A soft tread and a rustle of silk came up the gallery stairs,
and presently the beauty of the Hermitage drew the organ-loft curtains
and stood by the player. She moved with graceful condescension to
Tom Mayfield, whose eyes responded, full of respect and love,
Clytie laid her hand upon her grandfather's shoulder.

" Come, grandfather dear, we shall not have time for our little
walk."

In Dunelm everybody walked a little way after morning church
until dinner-time, which on Sundays with all classes was in the middle
of the day.

The old man took her hand in his right hand, finishing his extem-
pore performance with the left ; then he put in the stops one after
the other, until the music seemed to go far away in the distance,
finishing in a sort of harmonic sigh.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the young- student "A most touching
finale. There is nothing like the minor key."
Clytie smiled approvingly.

"May I walk a little way with you, Mr. Waller?" Tom asked,
looking all the time at the lady.

" Yes, yes," said the old man, " by all means ; we shall only stroll
in the shade of the trees, through the Banks, round over the Bridge,
and then home."

The lady was dressed with becoming taste. A light, thin silk dress
— lilac flowers on a creamy ground — a Brussels-lace pellerine, a chip
bonnet trimmed with lilac flowers, light gloves, and her dress slightly
open at the neck so that you saw the full throat, purer in shade and
whiteness than the small pearl brooch that rested there. She was
indeed supremely beautiful, this belle of the northern city. No
wonder match-making mammas tried to keep her out of the inner
ring of Dunelm society. Their task was not altogether an easy one.
Tom Mayfield now felt how lonely he was. If his father and mother
had been alive, they should have called upon her, and given him the
right to invite the organist and his grand- daughter home.

Tom walked by her side in the Banks, and talked to her with his
voice specially attuned to her ear. She knew that he loved her.
She could read it in every glance of his eye. She tried to justify his
adrriration. It made her happy to be admired. Even in church she
enjoyed the silent homage of the people. A few of the Dunelm

C lytic 24 7

women were as mad about her as the men ; she was so sweet
and pretty. Clytie knew people turned round to look at her.
She seemed to fill the street ; her soft sympathetic eyes, her perfectly
oval face, her red lips, her brown wavy hair ; her exquisite figure,
round and full, like the ideal woman of a painter's dream ; her gentle
dove-like manner, impressed beholders as if they had seen a vision
of beauty ; and the old grey walls of the city set off the picture ; she
was so bright and graceful — a contrast to the big solemn houses and
the quaint crumbling towers.

Passing over Prebend's Bridge they met the Ransfords ; old
Ransford, Mrs. Ransford, the sisters, young Ransford, and Phil.
The whole family swept by, receiving with a vulgar effort at hauteur,
intended for Clytie, the polite recognition of Mr. Mayfield. When
the flood of silk and muslin and perfume had passed, the Wallers
and Tom discovered that Phil Ransford was left behind. He
shook hands with Clytie, looked through Tom Mayfield (who
met his gaze with calm defiance), and told Mr. Waller that it
was awfully hot. Luke said he rather thought it was warmer
than usual, but that was to be expected at this time of the year.
Clytie seemed a little confused, but presently recovered and
enjoyed her triumph. She saw that the two men were jealous,
and she really did not care a button for either of them. If she had
any choice between the two, the balance of liking was in Phil
Ransford's favour. He was rich, very rich she understood ; and he
had already made her several valuable presents. Among these was
a necklet of pearls with a diamond clasp. She had not dared to show
it to her grandfather, because somehow she had felt that she ought
not to have accepted so costly a gift. She had, however, done an
odd thing : one day when she was on a visit at a friend of Luke's, a
widow at Newcastle, she had called upon a jeweller there and asked
him the value of the necklet He said it was worth a hundred and
fifty guineas ; and from that moment Phil Ransford seemed to have
some special claim upon her, some mysterious authority. She had
admitted to herself a peculiar sense of obligation which she could
not explain ; it kindled a new desire within her, an ambition which
for the time got possession of her, body and soul. She would
like to be a fine lady, a queen of fashion and beauty, a goddess in that
grand society of wealth and loveliness, of show and pomp, which Phil
Ransford had described to her as existing in London, where she
ought to live. All this was in her mind when she looked at Tom
Mayfield and Phil Ransford on this summer Sunday. The new, well-
fitting clqthes of her rich admirer, his heavy watch-guard, his silver-

248 The Gentleman s Magazine.

headed cane, his gloves, his shiny hat, his general air of wealth,
told in her inexperienced mind against Tom Mayfield's dingy
college gown and grey trousers. Moreover, Tom talked of books,
of poetry, of music, and the earnestness of life ; while Phil was full
of flower shows, archery meetings, and the pretty frivolities of
existence.

Phil walked with the party to the Hermitage, and monopolised a
great deal of Clyde's attention ; and he did it with an air of authority
that did not even escape the notice of Grandfather Waller, who
resolved in his own mind to speak about it to Clytie before the day
was over.

Meanwhile the two young men left the Wallers at the front door of
the Hermitage, and walked together along the Bailey to Tom May-
field's rooms. They did not speak until they were within the welcome
shadow of St. Cuthbert's Gateway, and then Phil Ransford said,

" Mr. Mayfield, you and I must have a serious conversation."

" By all means," said Tom, looking up calmly into the face of his
stalwart companion.

" A serious conversation," Phil repeated.

" When you please," said Tom.

" To-morrow?"

" Yes."

"Shall I call upon you?"

" Yes."

" At eight to-morrow night ? "

" That will suit me."

" It is an engagement then?"

" By all means."

" Good morning," said Phil, and the two parted.

The reader will already have gleaned that Tom did not live in
college. He preferred an independent existence outside. His little
bachelor dinner was waiting for him as he entered his room. He
ate it thoughtfully, and, lighting his pipe immediately afterwards, sat
near the window where he could see the College Green and hear the
bees humming in the lime trees. He had turned his back upon his
favourite bust, but he was questioning his own heart about the living
prototype, and Phil Ransford seemed to him like a dark, ugly shadow
in the sunshine. He sat dreaming until the Cathedral chimes lazily
invited Dunelm to afternoon service ; Dunelm responded with
suitable lethargy. Tom Mayfield laid down his pipe, and casting
a longing look at the white unconscious statue, slipped out upon the
Green, glided through the cloisters, and found rest for his troubled
thoughts in the soft, soothing, dreamy music of the Cathedral choir.

Clytie. 249

CHAPTER IV.

THE WARNING.

There was a square, old-fashioned garden at the Hermitage. It
was shut in by high walls covered with ivy. The garden beds were
marked out by tall boundaries of box-wood. The flowers were old-
fashioned and sweet beyond description. At the bottom of the
garden there was a narrow terrace, upon which stood a summer-house,
a round sort of chalet, covered with ivy, with which half a dozen other
creepers struggled for recognition. Terrace and summer-house over-
looked a broad expanse of ornamental lawn belonging to the next
house, which in its turn was shut in by the River Wear. Nothing
could be more picturesque than this bit of Dunelm. Occasionally
on summer afternoons the Wallers drank tea on the terrace, the old
man entertaining his grand-daughter with his violin and with stories
of the great world of London, in which she took an inextinguishable
interest.

" After dinner, Mary, let the servant go out, and lock the door ;
we will have a quiet hour in the summer-house before evening service ;
if there are callers, they will think we are out too."

" Yes, dear," said Clytie ; but after dinner she seemed loth to go ;
and when they were alone in the house she sat down to the piano,
and commenced to sing.

" Now, my pet, come along," said the old man, putting her garden
hat upon her head — " come along ; I want to talk to you."

He took her arm, and put it within his own, and they went together
to the summer-house.

"There ; now we can have a good long talk," said the old man,
placing a low rush chair for the young girl, and patting her cheek as
she sat down and looked inquiringly at him.

" You know how dearly I love you," lie said.

" My dear grandfather !"

" That I would willingly lay my life down for you — sit still, my
darling — that no sacrifice would be too great for me to make to
secure your happiness."

"Dear grandfather, what have I done that you should think it
necessary to say this ?" asked Clytie, almost in tears.

" Nothing, love ; nothing. Mr. Philip Ransford evidently admires
you very much. I noticed that to-day when you saw him you
changed colour ; and I thought he seemed more familiar in his
manner than our acquaintance with him warranted."

250 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Clytie did not speak. She had the necklet in her pocket; it
seemed to burn her hand that lay upon it

" Now, I would never stand between you and the choice of your
heart ; but I do not like Mr. Ransford ; that is, I do not like
him as your admirer. I have no faith in him as your lover; he
is a mere butterfly of society — a gay, frivolous young fellow, who
looks at life from a very different point of view to an honest, earnest
man."

" He is not much like a butterfly, dear grandfather," said Clytie,
smiling.

She had got over her first fright, and was now prepared to meet
her grandfather courageously.

" Not so far as gracefulness and elegance go," said Luke, rather
pleased that Clytie did not appear to take the matter seriously.

" Mr. Mayfield would do better for that part; his gown might serve
for wings, but it is a pity it is so old and shabby."

Clytie laughed a little ringing laugh at her picture of Tom as a
butterfly.

" You quizzical puss," said the old man ; " you are just like your
mother."

" Let us talk about her, dear," said Clytie, promptly. " You never
talk about my father and mother, though I am always asking to know
everything about them ; tell me of my mother at the opera."

" Not now, dear," said Luke; " by-and-by. But this Mr. Ransford,
he made me uncomfortable this morning ; I don't like him."

"Nor I, dear," said Clytie; "but we must be civil to him."

"You don't like him?"

" Not I," said Clytie.

"You like Mr. Mayfield, then?" said Luke, his countenance
changing to an expression of pleasant anticipation.

" No ; no more than I do Mr. Ransford."

" Oh," said Luke, his face dropping again.

" I don't care for any one but you, dear," said Clytie, getting up
and flinging her arms round her grandfather ; " my dear, dear old
father and mother and grandfather and everything ; surely you don't
want me to like some one else and leave you ? "

"My own darling," said the old man, his voice trembling with
emotion ; " I could part with you, if it were necessary, to be the wife
of a good, true man ; but even that would try me sorely. But— oh,
my love, do not let us talk of it ; you will never leave me ; you will
never leave your dear old grandfather!"

Luke laid his hand upon the girl's shoulder, and wept.

C lytic 251

" Never, dear, never," said the girl, sobbing, and secretly vowing to
throw that burning necklace into the river.

"There, there, I am an old fool,"» said Luke ; "forgive me, my
child ; let us go into the house and have some music ; we have had
enough of this ; but promise, love, to have no secrets from me. I
can advise you better than all the world, for I love you better."

" Yes, dear," said Clytie.

" Your mother died broken-hearted, my child, because she trusted
to a young gay nobleman, in whom she believed rather than listen to
me, her father who loved her with all his soul."

" My poor mother !" said Clytie; "sit down, grandfather, and tell
me of her, all from the first ; you tell me something new every time
we talk of her."

" It was not her fault altogether, poor dear," said the old manias
if he were talking to himself ; " I ought not to have allowed her to
go on the stage. It was her mother's dying request that she should
not, but I disregarded that. As time wore on the dying request
seemed to get weaker and weaker, and Mary had wondrous powers,
and no other wish in life. When she appeared London went mad
about her ; a young nobleman fell madly in love with her, he followed
her everywhere, she went away with him to Paris, she wrote and told
me she was married, but secretly. I heard from her next at Rome,
then from Florence, next from St. Petersburg. This consumed many
months, and then I no longer heard of her. I went to the young
man's father, a lord ; he ordered me to be thrust into the street, up-
braided me that my daughter had disgraced his son, threatened to
lock me up. But there, you know the story ; let us go into the
house."

" No, dear, tell7 it to me again — it will do me good," said Clytie,
her hand in her pocket trying to crush those scorching pearls.

" I conducted the orchestra at the Olympic, but my health failed.
I gave up everything. I wrote everywhere, inquired everywhere, but
could learn nothing of my child. A year had passed away, when I got
a letter from Boulogne. Mary was ill there, sick unto death. Her
husband, she said, had deserted her ; she was on her way home with
her baby, but had been taken ill at Boulogne. I hastened thither, I
found her ; my poor darling, I did not know her, only her soft sweet
voice was unchanged ; she was dying of the small-pox "

Clytie shuddered ; despite the hot, burning sun, a chill ran through
her veins.

" She died in my arms. Heaven would not let me go with her,
because there was her child for me to take care of— you, my darling.

352 The Gentleman s Magazine.

I buried her there, and thought my heart was in her grave ; but God
has been good; we are happy here, you and I, my darling, in this dear
old city, where we can dream of the past and prepare ourselves for
the better land, where we shall meet those we loved, pure and beauti-
ful as we knew them when they were young."

" Come into the house now, dear," said Clytie, with unfeigned
tenderness, and leading the old man as if he were a child.

" But he was punished ! " suddenly exclaimed Luke, " punished.
Her betrayer died miserably, stabbed in a brawl at Homburg, killed
like a dog; and I went to his father again, went to gloat over
him, to scoff at his misery; but oh, my love, he was broken
down, he was torn with grief like a common man, and when he heard
my story he grasped my hand, said we would be friends, and I know
him now, dear, as the best and most kind-hearted of men. He is
wifeless, childless. So far as I could I traced your mother in her
journey on the Continent and used every possible exertion to obtain
proofs of her marriage, but without avail. Those proofs would make
you a lady of title "

Clytie's heart beat wildly.

" His lordship would acknowledge you as his daughter."

" We should be rich, and live in the great city," said Clytie, her
eyes sparkling.

" You would be rich, and a great lady ; yes," said Mr. Waller ;
"but you might not be happy, not half so happy as you are here."

" No. And why do I not see the lord who is my other grand-
father?"

"Ah ! you will never see him, dear — I have promised it — unless
we can prove your mother's marriage, which is the only subject of
difference between us. He is as sure that his son did not marry her
as I am convinced he did. His lordship learnt a great deal about
his son's life that I did not know of. It was the wild, reckless,
purposeless life of a libertine, and his end was in keeping with it."

'* Poor, dear mother ! And you, dear, how you must have
suffered."

" I should not tell you all these sad things, my child, only that
they will be a warning to you only to trust in me — not to have secrets
from me ; and now that I know you do not care for this Ransford,
I will tell you that I dislike him ; I believe he is a villain — a heartless,
vain fellow. Let us avoid him."

" Yes," said Clytie ; and she regretted that she was not standing
on Prebend's Bridge that she might hurl his presents into the river.

But at night, when she found a note inside her Prayer-book at

Clytie. 253

church as she had found twice before, she slipped it into her pocket,
thinking she would see what he had to say this last time, and then
burn his letters, and either fling his jewels into the river or send them
back to him. The pew-opener at St. Bride's had been an old servant
of Ransford's father, and he saw no harm, so long as Miss Waller
made no complaint, in complying with Phil's wishes about the Prayer-
book. Clytie heard but little of the church service that night. A
crowd of conflicting thoughts and fancies filled her bewildered brain.
She loved her grandfather, but after all she could not help thinking
that she lived a very humdrum life at Dunelm. The daughter of an
-actress, the child of a lord's son, how could she settle down to the
ways of toadying citizens and stuck-up parsons' wives ? Then she
tried to pray for guidance, for content — tried to seek consolation and
relief in the responses of the Litany ; but she had heard all this so
often, had joined in it so long as a matter pf course, that she could
find no pathos in it, no stirring appeal to her heart; her fancy
would go whirling on among riches, and pomp, and fashions, and
all the vanities of the world ; and if Phil Ransford married her she
thought how she could go to London during the season, and be a fine
lady in Dunelm too. Of course he would marry her ; she had no
doubt about that. Her only difficulty was that she did not love
him. The preacher that night held forth against fashion and dress,
against money, against pleasure, against balls and parties, against
everything which in Clyde's opinion must give zest to life. He said
those who were of the world could never go to heaven. A very
high Churchman, he contrasted the life of a Sister of Mercy with
that of a young lady of fashion, and the comparison was altogether
unfavourable to Clytie, whose spirit revolting against the preacher,
she felt that it was impossible to be really good ; but when he
uttered the benediction, and the organ pealed out in grand and soul-
stirring tones, she fell upon her knees and prayed earnestly, and the
tears coming to her eyes, she felt better, and hoped she was not so
wicked as she had seemed to be, nor so wicked as the parson evi-
dently believed she was. Yet she went home with Phil Ransford's
letter, and she did not throw the pearl and diamond necklace into
the Wear.

(To be continued.)

Vol. X., N.S. 1873. T

Three Months with a " Lion

King."

CALAMITY which occurred at Bolton not very long
ago, by which the popular one-armed McCarty, the
" Lion King " of Mrs. Manders's Travelling Menagerie
(a title as absurd as it was presumptuous), lost his life,
brings to my recollection certain events in the career of the original
and most celebrated of these self-styled subduers of the " King of
the desert," the relation of which may prove interesting to Sylvanus
Urban and his readers, especially such as study the nature and habits
of animals.

In the year 1838, happening to be in Paris, and stopping at
Lawson's Hotel Bedford, in the Rue St. Honore*, I was one morning
informed that a new visitor of some notoriety had arrived, and that
we were to be honoured at the table cThdte with the presence of Van
Amburgh, the great " Lion King," and his coadjutor, the head of the
speculation, Mr. Titus, two thoroughbred Yankees. They had accepted
an engagement at the Porte St Martin Theatre of ^2,000 for the
ensuing month. At this time the hero of my little story was in the zenith
of his gladiatorial glory, having performed, "himself and brutes,*
several times before Her Majesty and the Prince Consort and very
select audiences of the leading aristocracy, besides having been publicly
hung on the walls of the Royal Academy, immortalised by the
inimitable pencil of Sir Edwin Landseer, painted expressly for His
Grace the Duke of Wellington — the "Iron Duke." Under such
favourable auspices you can imagine that the " King's " visit to Paris
naturally created much curiosity and excitement among admirers
of the stirring and terrible, and at the hotel in particular at which
he "descended" was looked upon as both "sensational" and
gratifying.

Accident placed me nearly next to him and his party at the dinner
table, and by a congenial spirit in the conversation we very soon got
on good terms : " liquoring up " together and retiring afterwards to
smoke the " calumet of familiarity " — in short, in a few days we were
intimate cronies. I quickly discovered that he was a very stupid,
ignorant fellow, and for an American totally devoid of that peculiar

Three Months with a Lion King. 255

drollery and smartness in conversation which, if not always en-
lightening, is comical and amusing.

In personal appearance Van Amburgh was, even off the stage,
rather remarkable. He stood about 5 ft 10 in. in height, walked
extremely upright, studiously so, and very slowly : a sort of theatrical
strut, which would have drawn your attention to him had you not
known he was the great brute-tamer direct from New York and London.
He had immensely broad shoulders, small hips, and very straight
legs, small in proportion to his " uppers." His features were long
and narrow, quite the American type : an exceedingly pleasing expres-
sion, a frank, good-natured manner. He was also very communica-
tive. With these decided advantages he had one great draw-
back : he was afflicted with the most mysterious, profound, and
unintelligible squint of the left eye that ever revolved in the head of
a human being : when he chose it was perfectly appalling. By some
his complete dominion over his animals was attributed to this pecu-
liarity of vision ; certainly I would defy any one to be sure at whom,
or what at times he was glaring. The varieties of expression in this
" piercer " I believe to have been put on as a part of the by-play or
business of his acting ; be that as it may, I am sure it had no effect
whatever upon the animus of the beasts.

He was received by the Parisians with that enthusiasm and furore
which they usually display towards exhibitions where are to be enjoyed
the charms of novelty, accompanied by apparently imminent danger.
The latter quality has for them peculiar attractions; indeed, I verily
believe that some portion of the audience would have been more than
pleased at witnessing his death by lions in the middle of the arena.
It is quite certain that Van Amburgh was for a length of time followed
in all his performances by a gentleman who had wagered that he
would be torn in pieces, and that he would be there to see it. This
man of sanguinary expectations, whoever he was — a fact never ascer-
tained— always sat in a front seat or private box, and peering through
an opera glass, never withdrew it for a moment from the cage during
the " King's " presence in it. He had followed him to Paris and
resumed his usual nightly prominent position. As we all know, he
was, fortunately for poor Van, doomed to be disappointed in his
heartless pursuit of him ; still it annoyed his Leonic Majesty. The
engagement proceeded for some nights with the greatest success and
satisfaction to all parties : the management chuckled over their
profits, the audience applauded to the skies — and Van Amburgh and
Titus shook hands, and "calculated they had whipped creation.*
So far so good ; everything went smoothly ; but accidents will happen

T 2

256 The Gentleman's Magazine.

which "we reckon no one can calculate on." Not being a witness of
the contretemps myself, I will give it in the words of the " King."
"They (the animals) were in first-rate hitch — more so on that night than
I'd known them since making tracks for Paris. They'd behaved un-
common righteous. Prince (the lion) and Beauty (the Bengal tiger) had
done their bit, I guess, up to Webster, and so had Vic (the lioness), and
had all gone up den to wait orders. I was about striden backards
to send the leopards to the front, when, not noticing that Vic's tail
lay out, straight as a bowsprit, I trod mighty hard across it with a sort
of rolling squeeze, which was near carting me. In one instant, quick
as a squirrel, she had me through the calf and held on firm, dead
lock. I said nothing, I knew that would only flurry her — and per-
haps the others too — and she might then have rolled me ; so collect-
ing my almighty power, with good aim, I let her have it just above
the nose. She dropped hugging like wind, and made off Indian
fashion, on her belly, to old Prince. It certainly was weighty, that
blow. I never hit an animal so hard before — but my fixings just
then weren't pleasant, I calculate — so I gave her all I could. After
she'd skedaddled, I backed out quiet, bleeding like Niagara." The
curtain fell at the excitement of the scene — the blood was instantly
mopped out of the cage, for fear the other animals should taste or
smell it, and then Van Amburgh made all haste home to the hotel,
where it happened that I was ready to receive and console him.

He was in the most exquisite pain, but bore it manfully, and
smoked his cigar with the utmost coolness, save occasionally giving
utterance to those peculiar Yankee oaths which characterise the
nation. So large and deep, however, were the indentions made
by the lioness's fangs, that upon examination I found I could easily
pass my two fingers, one on each side, into the holes, and make them
meet In a few days the leg swelled, inflammation set in, and Mr.
Gunning and Sir William Chermside pronounced it a very threaten-
ing, dangerous case : and in that state, under the most anxious and
careful treatment, it continued, the bad symptoms obstinately and
gradually increasing.

At this time I had taken advantage of being in Paris to join the
class of that famous and justly celebrated historical painter Paul
Delaroche, at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, for the purpose of studying
the human figure. I had previously been a pupil in London ot
Mr. Charles Hancock, whose talent as an animal painter was highly
appreciated, and whose near approach to Landseer was frequently
made the subject of warm contention. I had often shown my
studies of animals, consisting principally of dogs, deer, cats, and

Three Months with a Lion King. 257

horses, to the suffering Van Amburgh, whom it was now a mercy to
amuse, and he expressed great interest in and admiration of the art,
more especially as the subjects were so thoroughly after his own
taste. His cage of animals had been removed to a stable yard in
the Champs Elyse'es — of which he had the key — and his engagement
at the Porte St. Martin was broken. His leg still continued in-
creasing in size, not yielding in the slightest degree to any kind of
treatment ; in short, the unlucky Van's " fixings," as he called them,
were as " still as a storm."

Nevertheless, I said to myself, here is a glorious opportunity for
minutely and quietly studying the beauties and terrors, the drawing
and grandeur of expression of the heads of the feline family. Con-
sequently I asked him if he would give me permission to make
sketches of his superb beasts. " I should think I guess I would,
friend," he good naturedly replied — "You know where to find them ;
poor dears, dying for their Boss ! Dan the keeper stops with 'em all
day long, so you'll have nothing to do but to knock at the gate
and say who you are, and then do as you like with 'em. I shall see
Dan before you, and let him know about your coming."

The next morning early I packed up my painting traps, and pro-
ceeded to the scene of action. I found the animals in a most com-
modious, airy stable-yard, under a sort of carriage-drive, well protected
from the weather, and in a capital light for my purpose. The perform-
ing cage had been taken to pieces, and the beasts had been removed
into their travelling-dens. The lion and lioness were together; the
enormous Bengal tiger, that measured twenty-two feet from the tip of his
nose to the end of his tail, was alone; while the leopards, of which there
were seven, occupied the third van. I was more struck than ever
by their extreme beauty, their sleekness of coat, and their perfection
of condition. But I soon discovered that these attractions were ob-
tained only by the greatest attention to their health and welfare. For
instance, my assiduous Daniel, shortly after my introduction, entered
the lion's den, and, brush in hand, commenced grooming him, an
operation which he seemed to enjoy, and submitted to with the
greatest patience and good-humour. He next performed the same
kind office for the disgraced Vic, who also appeared equally grateful
and equally as docile as her lord and master. Their thanks were
expressed by a series of joyous boundings up and down, and against
the boarded sides of the den, but with such ponderous grace and
roaring that I really « trembled for the fate of Daniel, who, not
attempting to interfere with them, stood perfectly mute and indif-
ferent, his brush in one hand, his broom in the other. With the

258 The Gentleman's Magazine.

latter, as soon as quiet was restored, he swept out the den.
This service was continued to each cage of animals, and with the
like results.

I soon set to work and completed a study of the lion and lioness's
heads, which, to the intense delight of Van Amburgh, I presented to
him. Unfortunately his leg persistently got worse, and with it his
health was fast failing. Alarming debility, fainting fits, and profuse
perspirations were the coming evils. For my part, I began to dread
the worst ; and as for Titus, he was past all hope or consolation,
and spent his time in brandy and tears. At length came the crisis.
Amputation was proposed. Van would not listen to any limb-
lopping ; he preferred death a thousand times over. A consultation
with the best French surgeons was next held. Baron Larry, as a
dernier ressort, requested permission to open the leg, which had now
swollen to an enormous size ; by keeping it in a continual hot batii
he hoped to bring on suppuration. To this Van Amburgh consented ;
and never shall I forget the scene of confusion and uproar he caused
at the operation. This courageous, dauntless gladiator, who daily
and nightly risked his life ; who boasted that he would face the most
savage wild beast, and indeed on several occasions had done so ;
whose coolness and presence of mind were beyond a doubt ; and
whose American philosophy of death would have led you to believe
that he had already suffered that last convulsion at least ten times —
the instant that all was in readiness (he had been removed for con-
venience from the bed into an arm-chair) and he caught sight
of the knife, he howled and yelled worse than any hyena.
He cried for mercy, begged, prayed, and implored like a child
that they would not hurt him, and, in fine, that they would
desist : he could never stand it; it would kill him at once; he should
die under the operation. However, all his beseechings were now too
late, and in vain ; he was in the hands of men who, accustomed to
scenes of this description, were as deaf and unmoved as posts. With
the assistance of two men, besides Titus and myself, the cursing,
swearing, and violent patient — for that was the turn his mind and
temper had taken ere he resigned himself to the knife — was held
down by main force after severe struggling. I may truly say it was
a fight for life. What a blessing is chloroform ! Baron Larry at
length passed the scalpel in at the back of the leg, a little above the
calf, and below the knee, and drew it out about an inch above the
ankle. The wound was fully eight inches long, and as deep as
he could make it. During its progress the yelling, cursing, and
fighting was inconceivably disgusting and ridiculous. Nevertheless,

Thru Months with a Lion King. 259

the "King" was fairly beaten, and when all was over, and the
limb comfortably placed in a hot bath, his gratitude was boundless,
and his thanks unceasing and sincere. He wept like the veriest
child.

A few days sufficed to show that the operation had been at-
tended with signal success. From day to day there was manifest
improvement in both the poisoned leg and his shaken health, and
thus in time was the mighty tamer of the denizens of the forests and
deserts restored from the' brink of the grave to his normal condition
of gigantic strength and health.

During his progress to convalescence I daily availed myself of the
opportunity of sketching and studying the beautiful beasts in the
Champs Elyse'es. I was left much alone with them, and became
quite familiar and good friends with all of them.

I come now to the secret — the very soul, as it were, of the tamer's
existence and professional success, which I discovered under the
following strange circumstances. On arriving at the extremities of
the tiger, anxious to express the peculiar action of clawing natural to
all the feline tribe, I essayed to irritate him with the handle of a hoe
used for scraping out the dens, trusting that he would strike at it with
his paw. It was all in vain, I could not procure the demonstration of
talons necessary for my purpose, although I over and over again tried to
bring him to the scratch. In despair I gave it up and sat down and
smoked, considering what next to do, when I presently observed that
my striped model beauty had prepared himself for a siesta, and in
his abandon had thrust out his huge foot beneath the bottom bar, so
that it hung listlessly on the outside, in a sort of drooping position.
Softly, almost imperceptibly, smoothing it down with one hand — a
sensation that evidently gave him pleasure and confidence — I with the
other tenderly drew open his toes, still continuing the mesmeric
movement. He at first half opened his terror-striking eyes, and gazed
dozingly but inquiringly at me, as much as to say, " What are you
going to do ?" I did not, however, desist, but cautiously continued
my examination ; nor was I to be satisfied until I had thoroughly
ascertained the truth of my suspicions — he had no claws. They had
been extracted as you would extract the finger nail of a human being,
and the toes afterwards cauterised. Upon carefully scrutinising the
feet of the other animals I soon made assurance doubly sure, and
incontrovertibly convinced myself that they had been all served alike;
from the lion to the leopards they were c/aw/ess.

The conclusions I immediately came to within myself at this
astounding mutilation were these : — Here is beyond comparison the

260 The Gentleman s Magazine.

very handsomest and noblest collection of wild beasts ever seen
together, tame, submissive, and tractable as domestic-bred animals, in
most superb coat, fat as moles, and apparently as affectionate and
grateful for kindness as would be the most intelligent and faithful
of man's companions ; the one great and accountable reason for this
is that in themselves — their courage, their ferocity, and their savage
natures — they are vanquished, annihilated, utterly undone and
demoralised. Plundered of their weapons, offensive and defensive,
their very heartstrings torn asunder, their quick, sensitive natures
crushed out — cast off the rack, cowed, bleeding, benumbed and in-
capable, to obey the will of their torturer. " Ah," I exclaimed, " poor
beautiful and pampered creatures, you are not what you seem ; you
are no longer lions and tigers, rulers of deserts and jungles; un-
happy, miserable brutes, I pity you from my heart ; nevertheless, in
your low estate you are yet more admirable than man !"

On returning to the hotel, when alone with Van Amburgh I made
a point of reciting to him my accidental discovery of his secret "ways
and means " of obtaining his surprising supremacy. His embarrass-
ment and confusion were at first profound and helpless, but to me, in
my disgust, really enjoyable. Recovering himself, however, quickly,

he rather violently exclaimed, "May I be !" (a national oath)

" if you were to tell other folks of this, youngster, you would just ruin
the consarn. You artists are too inquisitive. I wonder natur* stands
to it, always prying into her bosom secrets. She'll revolutionise some
day, I guess, and throw you. What could you want with their claws ?
Why, a tom-cat's would have done you quite as well, I calculate, as
my innocents'. " A volley of slang followed this repentance of his.
liberal free admission to* his magnificent menagerie. When cooled
down, he extracted from me a promise, as " a gentleman and man of
honour," that I would never repeat what I had seen to any one, so-
long as he was performing. I have kept my word. This is the first
time I have ever disclosed the excruciating process, the refined agony,
and despicable cowardice by which Van Amburgh made himself a
" Lion King!"

The first meeting between Van and his animals after so long an
absence as nearly three months was one of the most touching ebul-
litions of attachment ever witnessed or possible to imagine. The
party consisted of Titus; the great performer himself, on crutches; a
Colonel Perrignez, of the Algerian Army ; and myself. Van carried
with him a large bag of sweet biscuits and lumps of sugar — for I
must here mention that he had taught them to eat all sorts of nic-
nacs, and they had become extremely fond of them, and looked for them

Three Months with a Lion King. 261

from his hand with greedy anxiety. They were always fed upon
cooked meat, and never on any account permitted to taste or smell
blood. On entering the stable yard, immediately catching sight of their
master, the whole place was in an uproar; the animals sprang against
the bars, rose up on them, rubbed themselves violently against them,
purring and roaring sotto voce, and exhibiting every conceivable
demonstration of affection and delight at his return that their natures
dictated and were capable of. Nothing but Van's caresses would
pacify or calm them. " Pretty dears, I would go in to them," he said,
" but I fear they would rough me, and I am yet too weak." However,
perceiving a chair handy, he exclaimed, " My pets, be patient and I'll
come and talk to you." Taking the chair with one hand, he opened the
lion's den with the other, and hobbled as well as he could up the little
steps which led to the doorway; but so eager were they to get at him,
that had it not been for the assistance of Dan, they most assuredly
would have jumped out and got at large. Once inside, Van seated him-
self most majestically in the middle, crutch in hand; then, calling the
lioness to him, he read her a lecture on her misbehaviour and the impro-
priety of biting him . Prince, in the meantime, sat by his side, with
his magnificent head resting on his knees, apparently listening to and
inwardly digesting the advice given to his less reflective spouse. Van
then patted and played with them, and finally put each through a
short rehearsal of some of their well known tricks and attitudes,
simply keeping them off him by the authority of his crutch, finishing
his visit by a distribution of cakes and sugar, and a renewal of fond
and endearing expressions of his regard for them. The whole scene
was of the most interesting and absorbing description, far surpassing
any exhibition that I had ever before either read of or could have
supposed such ferocious natures admitted of displaying. The
same ceremony was gone through with each set of animals, the
leopards literally mobbing and hustling him, almost beyond his
control; he had, indeed, considerable difficulty in keeping them at
all within bounds.

Van Amburgh is now no more, but he died a natural death — not
torn to pieces in revenge for unjustifiable brutality and vulgar daring.
He was par excellence at the head of his then novel and hazardous
calling — a " Lion King."

The Tichborne Dole.

HAT time Plantagenet the king

Was wading through his troubled reign ;
And Strongbow drew the sword, to bring
The exiled Dermot back again ;
At Tichborne Manor, day by day,
The Lady Mabel Tichborne lay.

So long her bed had been her lot,
And four white walls her only scene,

It may be she remembered not

That skies were blue and meadows green ;

But visions of a world more fair

Had often cheered her spirit there.

And she had learned that rank and gain

Are'nothing but a broken reed ;
And she had learned, by schooling pain,

To pity all who pity need ;
The naked, hungry, sick, and blind •

Were never absent from her mind.

Her husband, Roger Tichborne, Knight,
Stood, one March morning, at her side,

Prepared to see her make the flight
Across Death's darkly-rolling tide ;

" O, art thou here, my lord ? " said she —

" I have one boon to ask of thee."

" What wouldst tfcou, wife ? " Sir Roger said.

" I crave, my lord, a piece of ground,
To furnish forth a dole of bread,

As often as this day comes round ;
It is our Lady's Day, you know,
Now grant my boon, and let me go."

The Tichbome Dole. 263

'Twas long ere Roger Tichborne spoke,

Then seized he up a smoking brand,
And, half in earnest, half in joke,

Said, " I will give thee so much land
As thou canst walk around to-day,
While this pine candle burns away."

" Done with thee," said the noble dame ;

" Put by thy brand till noontide hour ;
And though I£am but weak and lame,

It may be God will give me power
To feed the poor this day with bread,
For ages after I am dead."

From hall and cot the neighbours went

To see their lady do her part ;
She stood before them old and bent,

But youthful fire was in her heart ;
Said all, " The Lord direct her feet !
Was ever one so brave and sweet ? "

A minute's pause to think and pray,

And raise on high her thankful song ;
And now the saint is on her way,

From utter weakness made so strong,
That she, who scarce could move a hand,
Goes round a goodly piece of land.

And one may yet, without the walls
Of Tichborne Park, behold the place —

A field, wide-acred, named " The Crawls,"
Where Lady Mabel, in her grace,

Left for awhile her dying bed,

To earn the poor a piece of bread.

Sir Roger Tichborne lifts his eyes,

So much amazed, he cannot speak ;
The half-burnt brand before him lies,

The colour mantles in his cheeks ;
While mutters he, " By'r Lady's name,
Had ever king a grander dame ?"

264 The Gentleman's Magazine.

When on her bed again she lay,
The house was gathered at her call ;

" Now, listen to the words I say,
Bear witness to them, one and all,

While those broad acres feed the poor,

The Tichbome glory shall endure.

" But should a Tichborne ever dare,
(As men will do, for sake of greed), ,

To meddle with the poor man's share
Of Tichborne land ; in very deed

The shadow of my curse shall veil

The Tichborne name, and heirs will fail."

Well nigh six hundred years had fled,
Since Lady Mabel passed away ;

And men had tasted of her bread,
And called her blest each Lady Day ;

Until to Tichborne Hall one year

A lawless multitude drew near.

There every thief, and every knave,
And every wild and wanton soul,

For miles around Dame Mabel's grave,
With riot clamoured for the dole ;

Thenceforward, for the sake of peace,

The gift, alas ! was made to cease.

And from that hour, the Tichbornes lost
The kindly light of Fortune's smile,

The good old name, so widely tost

Through court and camp, was hid awhile ;

'Twas ever so — " No poor man wrong,

If thou wouldst have thy castle strong !"

The Dead Stranger.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF ZSCHOKKE.
BY THE REV, B. W. SAVILE, M.A.

CHAPTER I.

FRIEND of mine — he was called Waldrich — had scarcely
left the University two years, and had been employing
himself as supernumerary and unsalaried junior barrister
in a provincial capital, when the Holy War agitated all
Germany. The object was the emancipation of the country from
the yoke of the French conqueror, and a pious zeal, as every one
knows, took possession of the whole nation. " Freedom and Father-
land " was the war cry in every town and village. Thousands of
young men joyfully flew to the standards. It was a quesjtion of the
honour of Germany and of the hope that the Land of Hermann
would perhaps awake to a nobler existence, under a lawfully consti-
tuted state of things, more worthy of this civilised age. My friend
Waldrich partook warmly of this holy zeal and noble hope. To be
brief, he took a polite leave of the President of the Courts, and
chose the sword instead of the pen.

As he had not yet fully attained his majority, and having no father
or mother living, and money being in every case essential to travel-
ling, he wrote to his guardian for permission to join the campaign
for his country, and solicited a hundred dollars for his travelling
expenses.

His guardian, Herr Bantes, was a rich manufacturer in the small
town of Herbesheim, on the Aa, who had, it might be said, brought
him up, although Waldrich had only lived in his house as a boy
before he went to the University.

Herr Bantes was a queer, whimsical old gentleman. He sent him
in reply a letter with fifteen louis d'or in gold, the contents of which
were as follows : — " My friend, when you are one year older you
may dispose of yourself and the small residue of your property
according to your own pleasure. Till that time I beg you to put off
your campaign for the Fatherland, and to apply yourself to business,
that you may one day get some situation whereby you may earn your
bread, which will be very needful for you. I know my duty to my

266 The Gentleman's Magazine.

departed friend, your late father. Have done with all your enthu-
siastic fancies, and become steady. I will therefore not Send you a,
single kreutzer, and remain, &c."

The fifteen louis d'or wrapped in paper contrasted strangely,
but not by any means disagreeably, with this letter. Waldrich would
have been long in explaining the difficulty, and would perhaps never
have done so, had not his eye glanced upon the bit of paper in which
the money had been enclosed, and which had fallen on the floor.
He took it up, and read : —

" Do not be discouraged. Embrace the holy cause of suffering
Germany. God protect you ! is the prayer of

" Your former playfellow,

"Frederica."

This said playfellow Frederica was none other than Herr Bantes's
young daughter. Heaven knows how she managed with the sealing
up of her father's letter. Waldrich stood enraptured, more delighted
with the heroic heart of the young German girl than with the gold
which Frederica had enclosed, probably out of her own savings. He
wrote immediately to a friend in Herbesheim, enclosed a few grate-
ful lines for the little girl (forgetting that the little girl in four years*
time might be somewhat grown), called her even his German
Thusnelda, and betook himself proudly, like a second Hermann, to
the Army of the Rhine.

I have no intention of circumstantially detailing Waldrich's Her-
mann-like deeds. It is enough that he was in his place when wanted.
Napoleon was happily dethroned, and sent off to Elba. Waldrich
did not return home like the other volunteers, but consented to
enter as lieutenant in a regiment of the line. Life in campaign
pleased him better than behind the piles of deeds and papers in a
dusty office. His regiment took part in the second campaign
against France, and at length at the final close returned home, with
drums beating and songs of triumph.

Waldrich, who had fought in two great battles and several skir-
mishes, had been fortunate enough to escape without a single wound.
He flattered himself he should, as a defender of his country, receive
in preference to others some civil office as a reward. He was much
esteemed in his regiment for his amiable qualities and many acquire-
ments ; but as regards the situation, it was not to be had as soon as
he hoped. There were too many sons and cousins of privy coun-
cillors and presidents, &c, to be provided for, who had been prudent
enough to allow others to fight the holy war of freedom, and remain

Tfie Dead Stranger. 267

themselves safe at homeland who possessed, moreover, the advantages
of birth ; whereas Waldrich's parents ranked only among the middle
classes.

There was no helping this. He continued lieutenant, and the
more willingly as Herr Bantes, his former guardian, had long since
delivered over to him the very small residue of his paternal property,
which had also long since been scattered to the winds. He remained,
therefore, in the garrison, wrote poetry when on guard, and made
philosophical observations on parade. This was woefully wearisome
to him, till the troops changed quarters, when it most unexpectedly
happened that his company was ordered off to the small town of
Herbesheim. At the head of his company (for the captain, a rich
baron, was absent on leave) he entered his native town as comman-
dant Oh ! what were his sensations at sight of the two black, high-
pointed church towers ! The drum ceased before the Guildhall.
Two of the Town Council brought the billets. The commandant,
as a matter of course, was quartered in the best, viz., the handsomest
house in the town — that is to say, with Herr Bantes. The worthy
members of the Town Council could not have bestowed on him a
greater favour.

The company separated very well pleased, for it was just then the
very agreeable hour of dinner, and the respectable inhabitants,
informed betimes of the expected quartering, were fully prepared to
receive their new guests. Waldrich, who had known the two town
magistrates from his boyish days, remarked that he himself could not
have been recognised, for they treated him with respect and as an
entire stranger, and escorted him themselves, although he declined
the honour, to the manufacturer's house. Here Herr Bantes received
him with equal formality, and led him with much politeness into a
very nice, well-furnished room.

" Captain," said Herr Bantes, " this and the adjoining rooms were
occupied by your predecessor ; accept what we have to offer, pray
make yourself comfortable, and we hope to see you at dinner, and
such like. I hope you will make yourself quite at home."

Our Waldrich was exceedingly amused at his unexpected incognito.
His plan was to discover himself on some fitting occasion, that the
surprise might be the greater. He had no sooner changed his dress
than he was called to dinner. There he found, besides Herr Bantes
and his lady, and some old clerks and overseers of the manufactory,
with all of whom he was well acquainted, a young girl, whom he did
not know. The party seated themselves. The conversation turned
upon the weather, on the company's march that day, on the regret

a68 The Gentleman's Magazine.

of the whole town that the former regiment, which had been especially
liked, should be removed into another town.

" Meanwhile, I hope," said Waldrich, " that you will not be dis-
satisfied with me and my men. Let us only become domesticated
with you."

Now, in order to become domesticated, it was natural that the
commandant, who had already been wondering that the friend of
his youth, Frederica, to whom he was indebted for his fifteen louis
d'or, was not to be seen — that he, I say, should ask his hostess
whether she had any children. " One daughter," replied Madame
Bantes, and pointed to the young lady, who modestly cast her eyes
down on her plate.

Waldrich's admiring eyes, however, wandered across more than
the occasion warranted. Merciful heaven ! what a noble creature is
the little Rietchen become. Waldrich did not say that aloud, but
he thought it to himself as he looked more attentively at the modest
girl. He made some polite observation to the parents, as well as
his first amazement would let him, and was heartily glad when the
old papa exclaimed : — " A spoonful more gravy, and such like,
with your dry bit of roast meat there, commandant"

Madame Bantes spoke of a son who had died in early childhood,
and she still spoke of him with the sorrowing affection of a mother.

"Have done with that topic, mamma," cried thejjapa; "who knows ?
perhaps in the end he might have become a mere spendthrift and
such like, as that George has."

It was now Waldrich's turn to cast down his eyes modestly on his
plate, for by the " spendthrift George " was meant none other than
his own insignificant self.

"But do you really know, papa, whether George has actually
become such a spendthrift as you represent him?" said Frederica.

The question imparted to the commandant a warmer glow than
the glass of old burgundy, which he had just put to his lips in order
to conceal his confusion. Traces of former and yet unforgotten
youthful friendship were to be discerned in the inquiry, and a ques-
tion so interesting, proceeding from lips so fair, and asked with a voice
so soft and so moving, might reasonably be looked upon as honey,
sweetening the bitter pill for poor Waldrich which Herr Bantes so
bountifully administered. For, in justification of his sentence, the
latter proceeded to relate to his guest, as though he himself should be
umpire, the history of his own life from the cradle up to the patriotic
campaign.

" Had the lad," thus he concluded the story, turning it to a practical *

T/ie Dead Stranger. 269

purpose, " only learnt anything useful at the University he would
never have enlisted and such like ; if he had not been a soldier he
might now be holding a good situation as lawyer or physician, have
earned his bread, and got a comfortable income."

" I know not," replied the daughter, " whether or not he made the
best of his time at the University, but this I know, that he must have
had a good heart to sacrifice himself for a holy cause."

" Don't be throwing the holy cause and such like always in my
face," cried Herr^Bantes. " What is this holy thing, I should like to
know ? The French have been driven away — well and good ; but the
holy German Empire has gone to the devil. The old taxes are
retained provisionally, and new ones are provisionally added. These
confounded English with their wares are admitted just as before, and
no one troubles his head if we blessed Germans become blessed
beggars. Everything went off flatly at the last fair. The Ministers
and such like go on eating and drinking, do just what they please,
know nothing about trade, let the manufacturers become bankrupt,
and are good for nothing from first to last. The world is just as in
former times, and worse still. If an honourable man, who perhaps
understands things better, does but open his mouth and sing a
different song from his Excellency with a cross under his button-hole,
and indifference under the same button-hole — haven't you seen it your-
self ? — it is quick work — away with the poor man to prison ; he is
turned out of employment, stripped of everything, all his affairs
pryed into, his character blackened ; he is a vagabond, demagogue,
and such like. I tell you, . hold your tongue, child ! You don't
understand the matter ; you mustn't look farther than from the teapot
into the cup, and then you'll be sure not to spill."

Waldrich gathered from this conversation that Herr Bantes was
still the same irritable, excitable, whimsical old man as ever 3 whom,
nevertheless, no One could help liking, with all his peculiarities. As
an umpire was now called on to decide in this dispute between
father and daughter, the commandant was prudent and polite enough
first to agree entirely with the father as regards the holy cause — and
that was considered as doing credit to his good understanding. But
then, again, as he was not quite disposed altogether to condemn him-
self, he felt also obliged to agree with his fair advocate in respect of
the good heart with which George had sacrificed himself for the afore-
said holy cause.

" Only mark," cried the old man, " the commandant is more wily
than Jack Paris with the three silly Trojan'goddesses, and such like.
Accommodates himself to circumstances; cuts the apple in two,
Vol. X. N.S., 1873. u

270 The Gentlematis Magazine.

gives a piece to each, and says, * Much good may it do
you.' "

" Nay, Herr Bantes, if your George erred he probably did so like
thousands of other Germans, and as I myself, for instance. I, too,
served in the campaign for the freedom of Germany, and left every-
thing else in the lurch. Our armies were cut to pieces, as you know.
The people were forced to rise and defend themselves, because the
army could no longer do so. It was not then the time to calculate
and ask questions, but to strike home, to risk personal life and
property, and to save the honour of the nation and the throne of
our monarchs. We have done so, and must now hope for better
times. Our best intentioned statesmen have no powers of magic to
restore lost paradise by a sleight of hand ; and I, at least, do not
repent of the step I have taken."

" I have the greatest respect," said Herr Bantes, with a low bow,
" the greatest possible respect, commandant, for your exception to
the general rule. Exceptions in this world are always better than the
rule itself. It strikes me, nevertheless, as something queer and
withal serious that we, citizens and countryfolk, merchants and manu-
facturers, must needs pay our money for twenty years together to
maintain an army of some hundred thousand idle protectors in time
of peace, to clothe them in velvet, silk, and gold, and then in the one
and twentieth year, when the protectors of the throne are cut to
pieces, must rise ourselves to bring the wheel into the right track
and such like."

This sort of chit-chat enabled them to get more intimate with each
other during the first dinner. Herr Bantes himself gave the tone, for
he was a man — and he plumed himself upon it — who, as he nimself
expressed it, never put a padlock on his lips. The commandant felt his
incognito at times very convenient, and yet he was desirous of putting
an end to it *

And in truth it was already at an end, ere he was himself aware
of it. Madame Bantes, a quiet, closely observing woman, who said
little and thought much, had no sooner heard Waldrich's voice at
the dinner table than she recalled his features as a boy,
compared them with those of the man before her, and recog-
nised him immediately. His manifest confusion when the con-
versation turned upon the " spendthrift George " only confirmed her
suspicions ; but she said not a word of her discovery either to him-
self or others. That was always her way. Never was a woman with
so little of that feminine quality of always having her thoughts on
her tongue. She let everybody sit and talk just as he pleased; 4she

The Dead Stranger. 271

listened, compared, and drew her own conclusions. For this
reason she always knew more than anybody else in the house,
-and guided,, unnoticed and in a quiet way, all that took place:
-even the excitable, fiery old man, her husband, who least of all liked
to be in thraldom to her, was so really more than any one else, without
guessing that such was the case. Waldrich's not discovering himself
seemed to her somewhat suspicious, and she resolved silently to
investigate his motives.

Waldrich had in truth no motive, but only sought an opportunity
to surprise the family by naming himself. When he was called in the
•evening to tea he found no one in the room but Frederica. She
came home from paying a visit, and threw off her shawl ; Waldrich
-advanced towards her.

"I have to thank you, Miss Bantes," said he, "for defending my
friend Waldrich."

"You know him, captain?"

" He often thought of you, though certainly not so often as you
-deserve."

" He was brought up in our house ;' it is, however, somewhat un-
grateful of him that since he quitted us he has never come even
to visit us. Does he conduct himself well — is he liked ? "

" No fault is found with him. No one has so much reason to
-complain of him as you, Miss Bantes."

" Then he must be a worthy man, for I have nothing to say against
him."

" But yet I know he is still in your debt."

" He owes me nothing."

" He spoke of some money for his equipments when he wished to
join the army, and which his guardian refused him."

" I gave, not lent it to him."

" Is he on that account less in your debt, Thusnelda !"

At that word Frederica stared at the commandant, the truth
-dawned upon her, and she blushed as she recognised him.

" It is impossible ! " cried she, in joyful surprise.

" Well, dear Frederica, if I may venture to call you so, though I
<lare no longer use the sweet familiar Thou, the debtor — the sinner — is
before you ; forgive him. If he had but earlier known what he now
knows he would have come to Herbesheim not once but a thousand
times." He took her hand and kissed it At that moment Madame
Bantes entered the room.

Frederica hastened towards her. " Mamma, do you know the com-
mandant's name ? "

u 2

272 The Gentleman s Magazine.

Madame Bantes slightly coloured, and said, with a gentle smiler
" George Waldrich."

" How, dear mamma ! you knew it, and said nothing ! " said Fredericay
who could not recover from her amazement, and now began to com-
pare the tall, stout soldier in regimentals with the shy< schoolboy of
former times. " Yes, it is indeed himself," said she ; " where were
my eyes? There is still the scar over the left eye, which he got
from his fall when he picked a pear for me from the highest tree ia
the garden. Do you remember?"

" Ah ! do I not remember everything ?" said Waldrich ; and he
kissed the hand of the old lady, who had in former times been a
mother to him, and begged her forgiveness for never having paid her
a personal visit since he came of age. He protested it was really not
ingratitude on his part, for he had often recalled this house to his
memory with respectful gratitude — still less was it levity or indif-
ference— but he could not himself say what passed in his mind and
prevented his returning to Herbesheim.

"Something of the same kind," gently replied the mother, " which
hinders happy spirits from looking back with pleasure to the cater-
pillar state of their wretched humanity. You were in Herbesheim
an orphan, without father or mother — a stranger. That is what we
could never make you forget. You were a boy — dependent, often in
fault. No delightful recollections of childhood attracted you to the
town, which reminded you more of school than of home. When
you became your own master, and grew into manhood, you felt
yourself happier in other places than you could be with us."
. Waldrich looked at the speaker with tears in his eyes.

" Ah ! you are still the same amiable, good, sensible mother that
you ever were. You are right. But yet I feel myself more at home
in Herbesheim that I myself could expect ; and I acknowledge the
contrast between my former position and my present one may in
some measure contribute to it Would I had come earlier ! But
let your noble heart receive me once more as an adopted son."

Madame Bantes could not answer the question, for Herr Bantes
suddenly entered the room, and seated himself at the tea-table*
When Frederica explained to him who his guest was he started,
offered his hand to the commandant, and said : " You are most
welcome, Herr Waldrich. You were but a little fellow* and are now
grown out of all knowledge. Herr Waldrich, or Herr von Waldrich,.
and such like — are you a noble?"

"No."

"And the bit of ribbon there in your button-hole? What does
that mean?"

The Dead Stranger. 273

" That I and my company took an enemy's redoubt, and main-
tained it against repeated attacks."

" How many men did that cost ?"

" Twelve killed, and seventeen wounded."

" So, nine-and-twenty human creatures for the eighth of an ell of
ribbon. A plague upon such goods, which the Prince sells so dear,
and which may nevertheless be bought in any paltry shop for a
couple of kreutzers. Come, let us sit down ; and, Frederica, give us
our tea. Have you much prize-money ? How do you stand with
your banker?"

Waldrich shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said : " We did not
•engage in the campaign for prize-money, but for the sake of our
•country, to save it from the rapacity of the French."

" Good, good. Those are sentiments I quite approve, and it is,
moreover, quite right to stick to them with an empty purse. And
the little fortune left you by your father, is it safe and untouched?"

Waldrich coloured, and added, smiling : " One thing I am sure of,
that I shall never lose it again."

CHAPTER II.

It was scarcely noised abroad in the little town who the com-
mandant was, when all his old acquaintance came around him.
Waldrich got into the society of the most respectable families, and
•was the most welcome guest in every party. He was clever, witty,
brave, an amusing story-tejler ; learned with the learned, scientific
with the scientific ; he drew well ; played the piano and flute with
<ase ; danced admirably ; and both mothers and daughters agreed
that he was a handsome, but volatile, and therefore a most especially
•dangerous young man. What they meant by dangerous, none of the
fair ladies could quite clearly explain, or whether his modest manners
increased or diminished the danger.

Meanwhile no damsel in the little town, whether fair or not, enter-
tained a thought of either winning a heart or losing one. Each lady,
•on the contrary, was more than usually on her guard. The cause of
-this reserve will not be easily guessed, except by those resident in
Herbesheim, or acquainted with the written chronicles of the town ;
.and those who are now informed of it will have some difficulty in
believing it ; and yet it is undeniably true, however improbable it may «
seem.

This was exactly the year for the centenary visit of the so-called
44 Dead Stranger," who was looked upon as a fatal acquaintance,

274 The Gentleman! s Magazine.

especially by all young maidens on the point of marriage. Nobody-
seemed to know precisely what connection there was between the
two. However, the story ran that this spectre, which haunted the
town of Herbesheim once every hundred years, took up his abode
there from the first till the last day in Advent, never hurt a child, but
paid his addresses to every engaged young lady, and ended by twisting,
her neck. In the morning she was always found dead in bed, with,
her face where the back of her head should be. What, however,
distinguished this spectre from every other ghost in the world is that he
not only carried on his affairs at the proper, lawful, ghostly hour —
between eleven and twelve at night — but appeared in broad, cheerful
daylight, was fashionably dressed like any other gentleman, and
walked about, going where he liked, and introducing himself where
he pleased. This strange visitant must have had plenty of
money, and, what was worst of all, if he found a betrothed bride
of another, he would himself assume the form of a wooer, merely for
the purpose of bewitching the poor girl's heart, filling her head with
love fancies, and, at length, twisting her neck at night.

No one could give an account of the origin of this tradition. In-
the parish register were to be found the names of three young
women who had suddenly died just at the time of Advent in 1 720. On
the margin were the following words, by way of note : — " With their
necks twisted, as a hundred years ago; God be gracious to their poor
souls." Now, if this remark on the margin of the church book was
no proof of the fact to any reasonable man, it at least proved that
the tradition was more than a hundred years old ; nay, that in all
probability something similar must have occurred two hundred years
before, inasmuch as the church book referred to it. The older
registers were, unfortunately, not forthcoming. They were de-
stroyed in a fire which took place during the Spanish War of
Succession.

However that might be, the tradition was well known to everybody..
Every one protested it was an absurd old woman's ghost story ; but
nevertheless, every one looked forward with, I might say, curious anxiety
to the approaching season of Advent to hear what might be the
upshot. Por, as the most cool-headed men said privately among
themselves, there may be, as Hamlet says, after all, " many things in
heaven and earth not dreamt of in our philosophy." The old
clergyman of the place, who received more visitors than usual to
read with their own eyes the wonderful passage in the register,,
expressed himself somewhat dubiously, although he was a sensible
man. He used to say either " I shall be greatly astonished if — but I

T/ie Dead Stranger. 275

*

don't believe it," or, "God forbid that I should have to enter any such
thing in the register."

The most incredulous were the young men. They made them-
selves audaciously merry on the occasion. The young girls also
pretended to be very valorous, but it was mere bravado. In private
each thought to herself : — " The gentlemen may laugh if they please ;
after all, it is not their necks which are in danger, but — and that is
really horrible to think of ! — only ours."

The effect of this tradition, or rather of this superstition, was
noticed by nobody more than by the old clergyman; for if there
chanced to be a love affair or projected marriage going on in the
town, the parties were in the greatest hurry to get the wedding over
before Advent Sunday ; and if there was no hope of- speedily
solemnising the marriage, the engagement was entirely broken off,
even though hearts were broken into the bargain.

It can now be clearly understood what the fair Herbesheim damsels
meant by danger, when against their inclinations they were found to
acknowledge the commandant's powers of pleasing. It was to them
literally an affair of life and death, and the visit of the " Dead
Stranger" was a subject of great and universal anxiety. For this
reason due allowance must be made for the somewhat unnatural vow,
made in secret, not to fall in love at all before or during Advent, and
even if an angel came from heaven he would then have no better
chance of their regard than an ordinary mortal. I cannot exactly
say whether the fair Frederica Bantes might have made a similar vow
to that of the other Advent nuns in Herbesheim, yet this is certain,
she did not honour Waldrich with greater regard than any other man,
for she was courteous to all. The commandant passed a blissful
summer in Herr Bantes's house, and was treated like one of the
family. The old familiar ways of his childhood were again unex-
pectedly and more agreeably resumed ; so that he called Herr and
Madame Bantes " father " and " mother," as formerly ; Herr Bantes
gave him from time to time a lecture (as he himself called it, when
giving vent to his vexation or his temper in sententious phrase) ; and
Madame Bantes, whenever the commandant was going out, took a
survey of his dress, had his clothes and linen under her own care,
supplied his little wants as though he were yet a minor, as in former
days, even kept an account of his pocket-money, and in spite of his
resistance at first, every month replenished his purse with the trifling
sums necessary for his little personal expenses. Waldrich was com-
mandant not only in the town, but also in the house, gave his opinion
on all subjects, and was called upon to decide in every dispute.

2 76 The Gentleman9 s Magazine.

Between Frederica and himself, also, as they gradually got accus-
tomed to each other, and forgot, as it were, that they were grown
up, the tone of bygone days of childhood seemed unintentionally
renewed, and they lived happily together, as before ; but sometimes,
also as before, they quarrelled, and that not seldom.

It is true that the ladies in the town, both married and unmarried,
made, as is always the case, their feminine remarks on Waldrich's
position. For the fair inhabitants of Herbesheim entertained one
peculiar notion, from which prejudice, of course, the female sex in
other towns is altogether exempt — viz., that a young man of eight-
and-twenty and a pretty girl of twenty cannot live for a whole
month under the same roof without feeling certain tender emotions.
Nevertheless, under Herr Bantes's roof, it was so little an affair of
the heart that they might have continued together or apart all day
long without discovering where that delicate machine was placed.
This was so manifest that the fair ones of Herbesheim at length
became convinced it was a case of exception to the general rule, for
no look, no feature of the face, no motion of the body, no tone of
the voice, no single letter in the vocabulary of love, betrayed aught
else saving a pure brotherly and sisterly state of things, as in the
former boy and girl of early days.

The observant eye of Madame Bantes would have quickly detected
if anything like the customary love-making were going on — women
have a peculiar faculty for that, which men do not possess — but she
discovered nothing, and was satisfied. As to Herr Bantes, he never
dreamed of such a possibility. In his life he had never had a notion
of what is called love, and would have had just as much fear of his
daughter becoming mad as of her passionately loving any young man
for himself alone. He knew that Madame Bantes had been affianced
to himself without their having once seen each other, and he had given
his father his consent and engaged himself as soon as he knew that
his future bride was an amiable girl, the daughter of a wealthy house,
had 30,000 dollars for her fortune, and still greater expectations.

This way of treating the affairs of courtship and marriage, the
expediency of which his own experience had afforded him ample and
undeniable proof — for he was one of the happiest of husbands and
fathers — appeared to him the most rational. He might have had* his
daughter married long since, for there was no lack of lovers ; but he
had not done so, partly owing to his unwillingness to lose his daughter,
to whom he was more attached than he was himself aware, and partly
because of the difficulties which arose when it came to money matters
with the suitors. He affirmed that the world could exist only by

The Dead Stranger. 277

the equilibrium of its solid parts, otherwise it must have tumbled to
pieces a thousand years ago ; and on that account he firmly held that
the due proportion of fortune on both sides was the proper foundation
of the marriage bond, and both Madame Bantes and Frederica had
hitherto looked on this as perfectly reasonable.

But now, however, Frederica was quite twenty years of age. The
old man reflected that he had married his wife when she was much
younger, and he thought more seriously of getting his daughter married.
Madame Bantes was of the same opinion, and Frederica had nothing
to say against it. A young married woman of twenty — the very
-expression was a pleasant one, it conveys notions of tenderness. But
a young girl of twenty can scarcely be talked of without the
thought entering into the mind, "How long will she remain young?"
Herr Bantes was sensible of this, and made his arrangements
accordingly. He was in the habit of celebrating several domestic
festivals in his own house, to which none but those connected in
some measure with his own family were admitted. On the grand
anniversary of his marriage alone were his friends in the town invited.
The old book-keeper, overseer, and cashier, who enjoyed the honour
of dining with Herr Bantes, were reckoned among the family, and
their birthdays were always celebrated ; no wonder, then, that our
friend the lieutenant's was to be formally kept. It was a law on
each such occasion that no one in the house was to presume to be
out of temper with the person whose birthday it was, no one was to
refuse him any reaspnable request. Every one was to make him some
present of more or less value. On these occasions the dinner was to
be of a more choice description, and then only was the silver service
used, and the silver candlesticks in the evening ; and the hero of the
day occupied the post of honour, viz. — the usual seat of the master
of the house. The presents were always given just before dinner,
and the health of the person was drunk in bumpers ; and when
dinner was over, he received from every one present an embrace and
a kiss. Herr Bantes had inherited the praiseworthy custom from his
father's house, and retained it still.

The whole of this took place on Waldrich's birthday according
to the old established, and, to him, well known custom. When he
entered the dining-room all the party were already assembled. Herr
Bantes came forward to meet him with his congratulations, and gave
him an enclosure in silver paper. It was a draft for a considerable
sum, drawn upon himself, and payable at sight Madame Bantes
came next ; she brought him a complete captain's uniform of the
finest cloth, with all the necessary accessories. Frederica next

278 The Gentlematis Magazine.

approached with a silver plate. On half a dozen very fine neckcloths,
hemmed and made by her own fair hands, lay a letter with the great
seal of the regiment, and addressed to " Captain George Waldrich."
The lieutenant started when he broke open the letter and 'saw a
captain's commission for himself. He had long been hoping for
promotion, but had not expected to get it so soon. He was made
captain of his company; his predecessor, now absent on leave, was
promoted to be major. " But, my worthy captain," said Frederica,
with her own peculiarly graceful smile, " promise you will not be
angry with me ! I will confess the letter arrived a week ago during
your absence, and I intercepted it to keep it for to-day. I have
been sufficiently punished by my week's mortal fear lest you might
hear of your appointment somewhere else and find this letter wanting.""

Waldrich was in no mood to be angry, and in his amazement he
could hardly utter a word of acknowledgment and thanks to the
others who offered him their congratulations and gifts.

" The main thing," exclaimed Herr Bantes joyfully, " is that the
newly-made captain is to remain with us and his company. I also
have had all through the week a sort of mortal fear and such like
that our George would be obliged to leave us. Come, Mr. Book-
keeper, quick to the cellar ; march, I say, to No. 9, to my old nectar ;
and send forthwith a dozen bottles to the officers of the regiment, to
each of the sub-officers, sergeant, corporal, &c, a bottle and a gulden,
and to each private half a gulden, and tell them their lieutenant is
now their captain. Let them all drink his health,. but not plague him
to-day with compliments and such like. To-morrow as much and as
many as they please." The book-keeper obeyed.

During the dinner it was evident to all how fond Herr Bantes was
of his former ward. In his exuberant gaiety he came out with num-
berless droll conceits. Waldrich had never seen him so merry, and
was exceedingly touched by it.

" Now, my dear captain and capitalist," cried the lively old man to
him across the table, " I intended, God knows, that the draft I gave
you should be a sort of pocket-money for travelling expenses. That
was the object of it. Now I am vexed with myself for being so
faint-hearted. You don't want it, and I ought to have given you
something better. Forget not the law of the house. You may make
any request you please, and I must grant it. So out with it without
any ceremony. Ask whatever you like, it is yours, even though it be
my handsome new powdered wig and such like."

The captain's eyes were moist with tears: "I have no further
request to make," was his reply.

The Dead Stranger. • 2 79

" Come, make haste and decide. Such an opportunity may not
occur again for a year," cried the old man.

" Then allow me, my dear father, to give you a cordial, grateful
kiss."

" Aye, thou child of my heart, that is thine at a cheap rate," cried
Herr Bantes.

Both sprang at the same moment from their seats, tenderly em-
braced each other, and both separated with hearts deeply affected.
There followed a dead silence. Frederica, her mother, and the rest
of the party jpartook of their emotion. That Herr Bantes should have
addressed the significant word Thou to the captain was to all present
a most unprecedented circumstance.

The old gentleman was, however, the first to recover himself, to
compose his features, and to break silence. " Now, enough of that
nonsense; let us talk of something rational."

He raised his glass and told the rest to fill theirs. He then touched
glasses with Waldrich, and said : — " Wherever there is a Darby there
must needs be a Joan, consequently let us all join in chorus ; here is
a captain, let us drink long life, happiness, and such like, to the
captain's future lady !"

Waldrich could not forbear laughing.

" May she be amiable, virtuous, and domestic," said Madame
Bantes, while she touched his glass with hers.

" Like you, my dear mother !" replied the captain.

" And the most charming creature in the world," said Frederica,
doing the same as her mother.

" Like you, Miss Bantes ! " was his answer, and he thanked her.

Frederica shook her head, and in a tone of half angry and half
jesting threat, held up her finger and said, laughing: "One must
put up with much from the hero of the day which at another time
would be reproved," and she made a sign as if punishing a naughty
child.

The book-keeper, cashier, overseer, and clerk made their own
innocent remarks upon this singular scene : first as regards the bold
offer which Herr Bantes made the captain of granting him whatever
he chose to ask, an offer which Waldrich so little understood ; then
the health drunk in honour of the captain's future lady. Truly the
favourite of Fortune must be blind if he did not comprehend what
the old father meant him to ask.

" My opinion is," said the overseer in a whisper to the cashier, as
they rose from table, "the affair is settled to-day. What think you?
We shall have a wedding soon."

280 The Gentleman's Magazine.

m

The cashier replied, also in a low voice : " I shudder at the idea.
I am thinking of the ' Dead Stranger,' and cannot help doing so."

The formality of the birthday kiss now began.. Each person went
round the table, meeting one another and exchanging mutual good
wishes. Waldrich received an embrace and a kiss from each. He
went up to Miss Bantes. With unembarrassed courtesy they met
and exchanged a kiss ; but no sooner was that done than they looked
steadfastly in each other's face, like persons who had quite unex-
pectedly recognised each other as old friends. Both were silent ;
their eyes met and seemed to penetrate each other's thoughts, they
bent forward once more, and the kiss was repeated as though the*
first was incomplete. I know not whether anybody remarked it ;
but this I know, that the mother discreetly let her eyes fall upon the
diamond ring on her finger. Waldrich suffered the cashier and
book-keeper to embrace him, but he felt no other kiss, and requested
from no one a second, but was satisfied with the first ; and in truth
he looked altogether as though his broad chest was too narrow for
him. And Miss Bantes walked towards the window looking as if
something had happened to her.

Nevertheless, all that passed away ; and the former cheerfulness
was restored. Two carriages were standing before the door ready ;
and the party took a drive, and spent the delightful autumn after-
noon in the country.

CHAPTER III.

The following day matters returned to their ordinary course. The
new captain had business of various sorts to transact: he had
received leave of absence to visit his general : he had also many
affairs relating to the company to arrange with his predecessor. All
that made an absence of several weeks necessary. He quitted Herr
Bantes's house as though it were that of his father; and the good people
took leave of him like a son, with parental admonitions, good advice,
and affectionate wishes, but without any sorrow or sadness for the separa-
tion, as they felt sure of his speedy return. Waldrich and Frederica
parted just as they used to do when she was going to a party, or foe
to parade ; only she reminded him that he must not fail to be back
for her birthday on the ioth of November. I had then the pleasure
of seeing my friend on his way at my house. He was delighted at
his promotion, but was doubting whether (from what his general
said) he could depend on remaining long with his company at
Herbesheim.

The Dead Stranger. 281

He repeated the same, and in the same unembarrassed manner,
when he returned to Herr Bantes, who regretted that they were soon
likely again to lose him^

" Nevertheless," said the old man, " we won't meet the evil half-
way. Sooner or later, we must all be marched off to another garri-
son. What matter here on earth whether we live in this or that town ?
We are near enough to each other, sometimes too near. Those con-
founded English, and such like, are near enough to my manufactory,
for instance, to be a dead weight upon it."

It may be considered as a matter of course that Frederica's birth-
day was celebrated with the ordinary forms and festivities. Waldrich
had brought for her from the capital a new and elegant harp, and
some choice music, with which he presented her when it came to his
turn. A broad pink ribbon fluttered over the beautifully finished
instrument. Herr Bantes was in the highest possible spirits : he
walked about the room in restless self-satisfaction, rubbing his hands
and laughing to himself so complacently, that his wife, who had been
looking at him in astonishment, could not refrain from softly whisper-
ing to the commandant : " Papa has some very agreeable surprise for
us in reserve." And in truth the judicious matron was not mistaken.

After the due congratulations and presents were offered, the party took
their seats at the dinner table : but when Frederica took her napkin
off her plate, she found on it a valuable necklace of oriental pearls, a
splendid diamond ring, and a letter directed to herself. The young
lady was most agreeably surprised, and took up the shining string
of pearls and the sparkling ring with girlish delight Her father
looked at her with a sortof ecstasy, and was beyond measure pleased
at the surprise manifested by herself and all present. The ring and
necklace went the round the table, still lying on the plate, that the
beauty of both might be better seen. Frederica meanwhile broke open
the letter and read it : her features betrayed yet more amazement than
she had exhibited at sight of the presents. Herr Bantes was in a
state of rapture. The mother studied with anxious curiosity her
daughter's agitated features.

Frederica was for some time silent, and thoughtfully pondered over
the letter : at length she put it down.

" Let the letter also go round," cried the delighted father.

Silent and confused, she gave the letter to her mother, who sat
beside her.

" Now, Rietchen," said the old man ; " has astonishment taken
away your breath, and such like? Confess, papa knows how to
manage things ! "

282 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

■

" Who is Herr von Hahn?" asked Frederica, with a sorrowful look.

" Who else but the son of my former partner Hahn, the celebrated
banker ? Who else could you expect ? The old Hahn has managed
his affairs better than I have done with my manufactory. He has
now retired from business. His son, young Hahn, takes the manage-
ment of all his father's concerns, and you are to be his bride."

Madame Bantes made a slight motion of the head indicating dis-
approval, and gave the commandant the letter. The contents were
as follows : —

" Dearest Miss Bantes, — A yet unknown stranger regrets infi-
nitely the impossibility of being present at your birthday festival save
in heart and mind ; his physician having forbidden him to travel in
this stormy weather. Alas, that I must as yet subscribe myself an
unknown stranger ! would that I could fly to Herbesheim in lieu of
these lines, and there solicit your hand, and the fulfilment of that
which our good fathers, out of the cordiality of youthful friendship,
have determined upon in regard to our union, which is now the
object of my impatient desires. My adored Miss Bantes, although
still an invalid, I shall hasten to Herbesheim as soon as the weather
at all admits of my doing so. I bless my happy fate, and it shall be
the employment of my life that you too may rejoice in our united
<lestinies. Your hand alone can I now venture to solicit ; not yet the
heart — of that I am aware. The latter must be won : but allow me at
least to hope that I may deserve it. If you knew how happy a single
line from your hand would make me, how much more efficacious
in curing and strengthening me it would be than all my physician's
skill, you would not let me beg in vain. — Permit me to subscribe my-
self, in all respect and love,

" Your affianced husband,

" Edward von Hahn."

The commandant gazed long and earnestly upon the letter: he did
not look like a man reading, but like one thinking, or rather dream-
ing. Meanwhile Herr Bantes absolutely insisted that Frederica
should put off her girlish affectation, and openly and honestly
acknowledge that the thing gave her pleasure.

"But, papa, how can I do that when I have never seen this
banker, this von Hahn, in my life ? "

" Little fool, I understand you, of course : but I can set your
mind at rest. He is a genteel, slight, tall young man, with a hand-
some pale face. Some time ago he was rather sickly, which arose

The Dead Stranger. 28

*>

probably from his rapid growth : for he shot up most marvellously
tall."

" When did you see him, then, papa ? "

" The last time I went to the capital. Let me see, it may be
ten or twelve years ago. I brought you back a pretty doll;
what did you call it ? It was almost as big as yourself. Babette,
Rosette, Lisette, or such like. Now you know. Young Hahn can-
not be much above twenty. A handsome, pale-faced youth, I tell
you. Only see him."

" Papa, 1 would rather have seen^him first, than read his letter
with such a proposal."

" It is very vexing that he could not come himself to your birthday,
as we old ones had arranged it : when I was engaged to mamma, I
came myself. Now, mamma, what do you say ? Confess, your eyes
are opened at last. I have been longing to tell the secret, and I
should have liked to tell you from the first. But I know you women :
there would have been my secret betrayed before the birthday, and
all surprise blown to the winds."

Madame Bantes answered rather gravely : " As a mother, methinks
I might have been consulted : the thing is now done : may Heaven
bless your work."

" But, mamma, I say, the choice ! As to the von before his name,
in sooth I would not give him a kreutzer for it ; yet a girl has no
objection to be addressed ' Noble lady ' — but the rich banker !
Look'ye, mamma, we manufacturers are after all nothing more than
common articles, but a banker is always looked upon in the com-
mercial world as something superlative, and such like. If" old Hahn
does but crook his finger, and beckon to Vienna, all the Court even
is quickly in motion, and asking: 'What is Herr von Hahn'swill?' If
he does but nod his head towards Berlin, all bow their heads to the
earth. Neither the devil, nor the English, nor such like, can get the
start of such a man. Therefore, mamma, I ask once more, what
do you say ? "

" I think it an admirable choice, as you have made it," said
Madame Bantes, and her eyes fell on her soup plate.

Frederica gave her mother a side-long look of chagrin, and
sighed: "And you, too, mamma !"

While this was passing, the commandant continued to gaze on
the letter.

" Mercy on us, captain ; haven't you^done reading"? Your soup
is getting cold," cried Herr Bantes.

Waldrich awoke, looked once more at the letter, and then threw it

284 The Gentlematis Magazine.

from him hastily/ as though it were infected with the plague. He
began to eat. Another person took the letter. The old father was
evidently vexed that Frederica did not appear more cheerful. At
first he attributed it all to the sudden surprise that words seemed to
fail the poor girl. Meanwhile he did not desist, but continued to-
carry on his jokes, as is the way on such occasions with facetious
old gentlemen ; but no response was made from any quarter, saving
that the book-keeper, cashier, and inspector smiled approval, as in
duty bound.

In great vexation, he said at length to Frederica : " My child,
tell me the honest truth. Have I hit the mark or not ? Is it a good
stroke or a bad one ? Tell your own father. You will sing another
song, my bird, when young Hahn comes."

" It may be so, dear papa," replied Frederica. " How can I in the
slightest degree doubt your kind, affectionate intention. Let this
declaration suffice."

" Well, that is perfectly right, Rietchen. A sensible girl ought to
take the thing into consideration. Mamma herself confessed to me
she did the same in her time. So fill the glasses. Here's to the
future bride's health, and the bridegroom's too."

The father touched his daughter's glass with his ; the others did
the same ; and cheerfulness seemed to be restored.

" It is indeed most vexatious that young Hahn should fail coming
just to-day," continued Herr Bantes again. "A handsome, good-
looking young man, I tell you. Very polite, very sociable ; has
had more education than his father. I wager you won't give him up
when you have once seen him. I wager you kiss papa, and thank
him."

" Possibly, papa, if so. I shall do so gladly; but until I have seen
him I beg — I have a right on my birthday to any reasonable
request, and therefore I beg — not a word more about him till I have
seen this unknown."

Herr Bantes knit his brows, and at length said : " But allow me
to say, Frederica, that is a silly request. Nevertheless it shall be so,
though your mamma made no such request in her time."

"My dear," said Madame Bantes to her husband, "don't scold
Frederica. You should not forget that to-day is her birthday, and
she must not be annoyed by any one."

" You are right, mamma," replied the old man ; " besides, he will
soon be here for certain. We shall soon have a new moon, and then
the weather will change."

The conversation then took another turn, with, indeed, some slight

. The Dead Stranger. 285

constraint at first, which, however, imperceptibly gave place to former
case and good humour. The commandant alone remained somewhat
cold and reserved, in spite of the general hilarity. Madame Bantes
seemed to notice it, and, contrary to her custom, filled his glass more
frequently. Frederica looked over at him once or twice, with a
steadfast inquiring eye; and when accidentally their eyes met, it
seemed as though their hearts were reciprocally asking some secret
question. In Waldrich's eye was an expression of silent reproach,
and in Fredericks heart a feeling as though she interpreted this look
into a reply which gratified her. The rest of the party talked of other
things ; the conversation was lively and pleasant, and old Bantes
fully recovered his waggish good humour.

It so chanced that when the party after dinner were going round
the table to give the beautiful queen of the fete the customary kiss,
Waldrich and Frederica met just before" the father.

" Now mark, Rietchen," said the facetious old man — " remember
now, our George is a certain person of whom I would not, for all the
world, say what I think in his presence. Remember that, and let the
kiss be something more and better than a common one. Try now,
you little fool.''

Waldrich and Frederica stood face to face. He took her hand.
They gave each other a searching, serious, almost melancholy look,
and bent to exchange the kiss. The old man sprang aside with a
comic gesture to see the kiss. It was given; and both, when they
withdrew, clasped their hands closer together. Waldrich turned pale,
Frederica's eyes were filled with tears ; once more their lips met, and
then they seemed on the point of separating, but a third kiss was
rapidly snatched, and Frederica burst into tears as she hurried off,
and Waldrich staggered towards a window, and began drawing figures
on the moistened surface of the glass. The old man stood as though
petrified, turning his head first to the right, then to the left.

" What the deuce does all this mean ? What's the matter with the
girl ? What's come over her?"

Madame Bantes let her eyes again quickly fall on the diamond
ring on her finger ; she knew what was come over Frederica, and said
to Herr Bantes : —

" Papa, have done now. Let the girl have her cry out. "

"But — but — but," cried the old man, hastily going up to his
daughter, " what is the matter, child? What are you crying for?"

She continued to cry, and replied that indeed she couldn't tell.

" Ah ! that's a mere pretence, and such like," cried the father.
'• Have you been annoyed ? Has mamma said anything ?"
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. x

286 The Gentleman s Magazitte.

" No."

" Or perhaps the captain may have ?"

" No."

" The devil ; nor I. Now, tell me, have I ? About that joke —
are you crying for that ?"

Madame Bantes took him by the hand, gently drew him away
from Frederica, and said, " Papa, you have broken your promise,
and vexed her, utterly disregarded her request; and besides, you
know"

" Reminded her of somebody. You are right, I should not have
done so. Never mind now, Rietchen, it shan't happen again. But
who would have taken papa up so quick, and such like ?"

Frederica composed herself. Her mother led her to the harp.
Waldrich was to tune it. The flute was also brought, the new pieces
of music tried. Frederica played the harp admirably to Waldrich's
flute accompaniment ; and the evening was, after all, one of pleasure
and enjoyment.

And Papa Bantes kept his word. Not a syllable more was said of
a certain important somebody. Vain endeavour ! Only so much
the more did he occupy the thoughts of the whole house. Regularly
every morning, noon, and evening did Herr Bantes go and tap the
barometer to make the quicksilver rise, and extort fine weather for
invalid travellers. Frederica, when nobody saw her, tapped too, to
make the quicksilver fall ; and Waldrich and Madame Bantes watched
privately, and much oftener than before, Torricelli's prophetic tube.

" The weather is clearly improving," said Herr Bantes one day,
when alone in the room with his wife. " The clouds are dispersing.
I think he must now be on the way."

" God forbid, papa ! It seems to me far more advisable for you
to write to Herr von Hahn not to come to Herbesheim before
Christmas, although I have no faith in the silly gossiping story ; yet
one can scarcely forbear being somewhat uneasy."

" What, mamma, are you thinking of the Dead Stranger? Nonsense ;
for shame I"

" I grant it, my dear, it is folly ; but if anything happened to-
our dear child at the season of the Advent, people would always —
nay, if Rietchen were at all unwell the mere thought would be
sufficient to increase the illness. And though I don't believe in
ghosts, and though Frederica laughs at it, yet we really might be
afraid, for instance, to go round by the church at night. It is incidental
to human nature. Put off the formal betrothal till after the fata!
time. After Advent the young people will have abundance of time

The Dead Stranger. 287

to form acquaintance, engagement, and marriage. Why, then, such
haste ? A delay of a few weeks would do no harm."

" For shame, mamma ! Don't insist on my doing so foolish a thing.
For that very reason — because people choose to indulge in this non-
sensical prattle about the Dead Stranger, Fredericks lover shall come
and the engagement shall take place. There ought to be an example
set, and it is our duty, and such like. Let the people in the town
see that we don't trouble our heads about any Dead Stranger, that we
allow our daughter to be engaged in spite of all this foolish talk, that
Rietchen keeps her head safe, and nobody twists her neck, and then
the neck of this absurd superstition will be twisted for ever. It's no
use for the parson to preach to people : * Do right — repent — be
religious.' He must go briskly forward, and lead the way."

" But suppose, papa, since you love your child dearly — suppose
now, you see, something very untoward, no matter exactly what,
must have taken place a hundred years ago, according to the register ;
and perhaps there were then people who jeered at the old tradition
— now we are doing the same thing : and if you do fix the ceremony
of betrothal precisely at this fatal ill-omened period, and if — which
God forbid — it were to happen that "

" Stop ! you don't mean Frederica's neck twisted. I won't
listen to such a diabolical suggestion — in mercy forbear, I say."

" No ; but, for instance, if Herr von Hahn were to come to us
during these so much talked of days, and in this dreadful weather
— only reflect, he is an invalid, as he writes himself. His illness
might be increased by travelling over bad roads in such weather.
Suppose we had a sick — at last, perhaps, a Dead Stranger in our own
house. I shudder to utter the words; and then the superstition
attached to this year's Advent would be actually confirmed by your
own obstinacy. My dear, consider it well."

Herr Bantes seemed very thoughtful, and at length murmured : —
" Mamma, I cannot understand how it is you always get notions in
your head which never enter other people's brains. How is it?
You ought to have been a poet, and such like. Besides which, it is
evident enough to everybody that you are regularly possessed with
the bugbear of the Herbesheim ghost. So you are all — you,
Frederica, even the captain, notwithstanding he's a soldier, so also
the cashier, book-keeper, and inspector — all, I say, but no one likes
to confess it — Pshaw ! nonsense."

"If it were so, which, however, I much doubt, yet it would not be
the duty of a prudent father of a family to treat with levity a

prejudice which, after all, hurts no one."

x 2

288 T/te Gentlematis Magazine.

" All folly is hurtful, therefore no levity — war, open ,war. Ever
since Frederica's birthday every soul in the house has looked as
frightened as if the Day of Judgment were at hand. The devil him-
self has invented this story of the Dead Stranger. It shall be as
before said, mamma, no change shall be made — I am immovable."

So said Herr Bantes as he hastened from the room.

Meanwhile, it was not exactly as before, even with himself. The
conversation had left its thorn behind : he considered that for the
sake of domestic peace it might be better to put off the formal
betrothal till after Christmas. He loved his daughter most dearly,
and this warm affection produced all sorts of anxious forebodings,
lest someway or other the devil should be at work, and then all would
be ascribed to the Dead Stranger. The nearer Advent Sunday
approached the more uncomfortable he felt, and that altogether in
spite of himself. In his heart he wished his future son-in-law might
delay his coming ; and he felt actually terrified when the weather
completely cleared up and the warm beams of the sun shed their
cheering influence over the world, as though the last days of autumn
brought with them a return of summer — and he went and tapped the
barometer as assiduously as ever, to make the quicksilver fall. To
his astonishment, he remarked that his wife and Frederica, as
well as the commandant, had recovered their former cheerfulness with
the return of fine weather, and that at length all his household had
resumed their usual tone, and that he himself alone could not feel as
before.

The mother did not fail to remark that Rietchen had all sorts of
objections to make against the rich banker, and that the commandant
was becoming, more than should be, commandant in her heart. Her
endeavour now was to postpone the formal betrothal of the banker
with her daughter, not with a view of showing favour to Waldrich,
fond as she was of him, but to guard against possible evil. She
wished the young people should first become acquainted with each
other, and that Frederica might accustom her mind to her destined
lot — besides which, it was still more important to her to know
whether Herr von Hahn was really worthy of Frederica's heart. For
this reason the judicious matron had never contradicted her husband's
choice, never reproached him, although he had concealed till the
birthday the important event of her daughter's intended marriage.
She knew Herr Bantes too well. Contradiction would only make
him more set upon the thing ; she therefore embraced every oppor-
tunity of discussion, in order to drive the thorn yet deeper into his
heart, and rejoiced when she perceived it was not without effect.

The Dead Stranger. 289

For this purpose she had written, even as early as the birthday, to a
friend in the capital, to obtain some information regarding the
character of Herr von Hahn. The answer arrived the same day
that the fine weather had so frightened Herr Bantes. Herr von
Hahn was described in the friend's letter as one of the best and most
respectable of men, who possessed the esteem and, until now, the
commiseration of every one, not only because he was always so
much of an invalid, but because he had hitherto lived in almost
slavish dependence upon his old, morose, whimsical, and avaricious
father. For some weeks past, however, the young* man had under-
taken the entire management of the old one's business, and the latter .
had retired to an estate in the country on account of his increasing
age and consequent debility : he was deaf, and almost blind, even
with the aid of spectacles.

This agreeable intelligence made fine weather in Madame Bantes's
heart, and the like cheering effect" was produced on Fred erica and
Waldrich, though from a very different cause.

. In consequence of a commission given him by Madame Bantes,
Waldrich had entered Frederica's room, and found her sitting by the
window, leaning her forehead on the new harp which stood
beside her.

" Miss Bantes," said he, " your mamma wishes to know whether you
would like to take a drive with us this fine day."

Rietchen made no answer, but turned her face away towards the
window.

" Your ladyship is displeased," said Waldrich, who fancied she was
pretending to pout. " Didn't I take another cup of chocolate this
morning, against my own inclinations, simply because your ladyship
was pleased to command it ? or didn't I come back from parade
precisely at the right time ? or did I fail during dinner to give a
respectful assent to something?"

No response was made. He was silent a minute or two, then went
to the door, as if he meant to leave, once more turned, and said
impatiently : —

" Come, Rietchen, it is glorious weather."

" No," was her reply, in a hollow voice.

He was startled at the tone, which betrayed that the speaker was
weeping.

" What is the matter ?" said he, anxiously, and took the hand
on which her forehead rested from the harp, obliging her to
look up.

" Does mamma intend that we should take this drive to meet him ?

290 The Gentlematis Magazine.

is he to arrive to-day ? has she said anything ?" asked Frederica,
hastily, and dried her swollen eyes with her handkerchief.

Waldrich's countenance fell. Half angry, he said, "Oh! Frederica,
it is not right of you to ask such a question. Do you think that I
should invite you if I entertained such a suspicion. Would to God
he did not arrive till I were far away !"

" How far away ?"

" In another garrison ; I wrote to the general on your birthday
with the request, but as yet have no answer."

Rietchen looked at him with an expression of vexation, rose,
and said : —

" George, do not be angry with me, but that, again, was foolish of
you."

' " I neither can, nor will, nor ought to stay longer."

" Waldrich, are you in earnest ? you will make me angry with you
for life."

" And do you want to kill me by forcing me to be present at your
wedding ? "

" You shall never be invited to my wedding ; who told you I had
given my consent ?"

"You dare not refuse it."

" And yet nothing shall induce me to give it !" sighed the young
lady, and hid her face in her hands.

Waldrich, too, was unmanned by his own secret grief. This was
the first time that they had touched on this delicate topic, although
it was ever present to the minds of both. At the last birthday, when
both, for the first time, were startled at the certainty, or at least the
possibility, that henceforth there could never more be a con-
tinuance of that unrestrained youthful intercourse in which they had
hitherto lived, they felt for the first time the nature of the
affection they entertained for each other. They regarded each
other, since the three treacherous kisses at the last fete, with other
eyes ; they understood each other ; they knew that they loved, and
were beloved, but without giving utterance to their feelings ; in both
there was all at once the calm and tranquil light of friendship fanned
into an ardent flame, and each tried to conceal this from the other,
and thereby only increased its secret power.

After some little time, Waldrich again approached her, and said,
in a tone of affectionate sincerity : —

" Rietchen, can we continue on the same terms with each other as
heretofore ?"

" Waldrich, can we then be different towards each other than we have
hitherto been ?"

The Dead Stranger. 29 1

" Can I — impossible — ah ! Rietchen, I have never known my own
happiness ; now only, when I am on the point of losing you, I feel
that I am lost."

" Lost ! George, do not say that ; do not make me unhappy. Da
not repeat that dreadful word."

" But when he comes ! "

" God will provide ! — there, take my hand : ten thousand times
rather would I become the bride of the Dead Stranger, But do not
repeat that to papa and mamma. I will tell them when the time
comes. Take my hand with this assurance, and be easy as
regards me."

He took her hand, and covered it with the warmest kisses.

" It is a promise of life, Frederica," said Waldrich. " I scarce ven-
tured to expect it, but I accept it; if you break it you break
my heart."

" And you are now once more happy and cheerful ?"

" Ah ! I was never so entirely so as at this moment," cried he.

" Away !" said Frederica. " Mamma will expect you : away ; I will
dress myself and accompany you in this drive."

She urged him to leave her, but at the door permitted one farewell
kiss. He went, greatly agitated, and communicated to Madame
Bantes her daughter's assent But Frederica herself sank in perfect
unconsciousness on a couch, wrapt in her dream of bliss, and forgot
the drive. The carriage waited on. Madame Bantes came at length
herself to fetch her daughter. She found her in a reverie, her head
sunk on her bosom, half veiled by her light brown ringlets, her
clasped hands lying on her knees.

"What are you thinking of? or are you praying?" asked the
mother.

" I have spoken with God."

" Are you well?"

" More than well."

" Be serious, Rietchen ; you appear to have been crying."

" Yes, I have been crying ; but I am happy now, mamma. Let us
go. I have only my bonnet to put on."

She took her bonnet and placed herself before the looking-glass,
under which was the pink ribbon with which Waldrich had ornamented
the birthday harp. She took it, and tied it round her waist Madame
Bantes said nothing, but she resolved never again to give the
commandant a commission for her daughter.

(To be continued. J

The Waterloo Cup.

[HAT betting men and bookmakers would do during
the dreary winter months without such " a medium
for speculation/' as it has been termed, as the
Waterloo Cup, it is hard to say. Until the publica-
tion of the weights and acceptances for the Spring handicaps, there
is almost a cessation of business among that astute fraternity — except
in an occasional " bonneting " of a winter favourite for the Two
Thousand or the Derby — in consequence of the increasing difficulty
in finding a wealthy " flat " so credulous and so confiding in turf
prophecy as to lay out his money after so many sad cases of warning,
and in the face of the proposed measures of Mr. Douglas Straight
and Mr. Thomas Hughes. The Waterloo Cup as early as October
becomes the general theme of conversation in that highly aristocratic
society known and printed as " betting circles," and the names Of
the holders of nominations become " familiar as household words "
in the mouths of men and boys given to betting, from "lordly hall to
peasant hut." Immediately on the publication of the betting lists
from Tattersall's, which every newspaper that aspires to any position
devoutly copies and aids in disseminating through the land, invest-
ments are made, and the smallest particulars concerning the "doings
of the cracks " devoured with the greediest voracity. Hoodwinking,
in the matter of predicting certain greyhounds as being about to
run under different nominations, then becomes a legitimate method
of making money, and the great endeavour of everybody is to
discover under what particular nominations the best greyhounds
are to compete. This attempt to ascertain what greyhound each
nominator will nin has always been, and always must be, attended
with the greatest difficulty. Sickness breaks out suddenly in some
kennels, in others all kinds of accidents to which canine nature is
liable occur ; and sometimes gentlemen, after a trial of the strength
of their stud, find that they are not in sufficient " form," and are
compelled at the eleventh hour to cast about for a friend to lend them
a greyhound for representation in the great event. In the " Cup n
of this year there have been many instances of this kind of thing,
and all sorts of predictions, prophecies, and probabilities have arisen
in consequence — some specious, some absurd, and most fallacious.

The Waterloo Cup. 293

The increasing amount of betting in connection with the Waterloo-
Cup is not a healthy sign for coursing, and it gives a fresh induce-
ment to our speculative youth to seek royal roads to fortune instead
of following an honest calling. Many a London and other youth,
as Kingsley sings, might valiantly declare : —

Nor I wadna be a clerk, mither, to bide aye ben,
Scrabbling ower the sheets o' parchment with a weary, weary pen ;
Looking through the lang stane window at a narrow strip o* sky,
Like a laverock in a withy cage, until I pine away and die.

It is true that the imaginary utterer of this stanza was not pining to
become a member of the cognoscenti, but was only wishing to neglect
every sort of occupation and pursuit usually adopted by civilised
men, and to become a mere outlaw : but the moral is the same^
though the outlaw has undoubtedly a considerable advantage over
the ambitious youth of the other sort; who would make gain his only
object.

The Waterloo Cup appears to be an unwholesome excrescence of
the Altcar Club, and from having been originally a thirty-two dog
stake has been increased of late years to one of sixty-four. This, no
doubt, has considerably enhanced the zest and interest felt in the
contest, and perhaps, also, has improved the breeding of the grey-
hound ; but it has unquestionably fostered an increase of the betting
propensity, and succeeds in drawing together an assemblage of low
class bookmakers such as are to be seen nowhere else, except,,
perhaps, at a "leather-flapping" suburban steeplechase meeting.
The ground is of a most peculiar kind, the land having undergone
drainage to a most extensive amount, a proceeding which, as
" Stonehenge " remarks in his book on the greyhound — a book whose
reappearance this Christmas ought to be a source of satisfaction to
all who take an interest in coursing in any country — " has made the
hares of this district more sound than it was formerly (sic), when
a run up, a wrench or two, and a kill formed the average Lancashire
course, and when a tremendously long slip was essential to produce
a tolerable trial."

Of this ground in its pristine form we gather from Blaine that " the
Altcar meadows differ from the give and take country of the Berk-
shire and Wiltshire downs and Lincolnshire wolds, and from the
ascending sweep of Newmarket Heath, in being a flat, intersected by
large ditches, into which strange dogs are apt to plunge, and yield
an easy victory to those of the district. A steam engine pumps a
great portion of the water up into the river, which bears it to the

294 The Gentleman's Magazine.

adjoining sea. The meadows are thus rendered dry enough for the
judge to ride ; and the spectators enjoy the sport either from the
embankment along the river, or on the plain itself. The drenching
which strangers frequently encounter in their attempts to leap the
ditches causes many an uproarious laugh/' Lord Sefton is a successful
courser, and himself " manages the field." The intersection of the
ground by such innumerable "soughs," caused by the increased
drainage, renders the coursing most difficult for greyhounds unaccus-
tomed to its peculiarities, and the remark has often been made that
it is a misfortune that so large a stake and so great a prize — nothing
less, in fact, than what coursers delight to term " The Blue Riband
of the Leash " — should be contended for over such a country. Its
proximity to Liverpool, being only twelve miles distant from that
important town, and its convenience for Irish and Scotch coursers!
to say nothing of the liberality of Lord Sefton, will, however, in all
probability always give it a commanding preference as the head
quarters of coursing.

Very little riding is required on the part of the judge, necessary as
it is at other places, but he frequently experiences great difficulty in
the discharge of his duties from being obstructed by the crowd. The
Earl of Sefton cannot be expected always to be present, though he
keeps up the custom of his ancestor in attending the coursing
whenever he can, and when his lordship is not on the ground a
Liverpudlian gang of bookmakers and backers of " individual courses "
is frequently quite uncontrollable. Still, considering what a mass of
people congregate on the occasion, there is perhaps not much to be
•complained of in the matter of general good order. Much allowance
is to be made for excited Lancashire under the influence of a fine
opportunity for making money at a quick and congenial rate ; and if
its coursing votaries do occasionally forget sport and fair play in the
interest of trade, there is nothing in that different from the conduct
of other people under similar trying circumstances.

It is most essential that the judge over such a difficult ground, and
amid so much surrounding excitement, should be a very experienced
one, and the Committee did wisely in selecting Mr. Warwick for the
thirteenth consecutive time to preside over this meeting. The
Scotchmen were anxious for the appointment of Mr. Hedley to the
post, but it is extremely doubtful if he or any other judge than Mr.
Warwick could have given general satisfaction to so heterogeneous an
assemblage. The crowd sometimes grow so enthusiastic that it might
be fancied they think that one of the late Duke of Norfolk's cours-
ing rules is still in vogue : " He that comes in first to the death of

The Waterloo Cup. 295

the hare, takes her up, and saves her from breaking, cherishes the
dogs, and cleanseth their mouths from the wool, is adjudged to have
the hare for his pains." The Three Counties Union Club some years
ago expressed a desire to have the "cote" inscribed among the cours-
ing rules and its proper value allowed. Lord Lurgan disposed of
this request by saying that he must confess that, although he had
now been a courser for some years, he was bound to make an admis-
sion of ignorance with regard to the word " cote." He was very
much obliged to Mr. Edleston for his able explanation ; but, how-
ever, he did not see any occasion for an unnecessary alteration.
The " cote," however, was once well understood in coursing, and in
the Duke of Norfolk's rules we find that it is "when a greyhound goeth
endways by his fellow and gives the hare a turn." A " cote " in
those glorious days served for two turns, but it is well that those rules
have been discarded, and a more intelligible order of regulations
substituted, or goodness only knows what a rumpus would be created
in the case of an undecided course, for no owner of a greyhound was
ever known to acknowledge that his dog had been fairly beaten on
his merits. This, perhaps, is not to be wondered at, and it is
questionable if any judge, however competent and experienced, is
capable of accurately judging every course, single-handed, throughout a
long day. But it is a comfort to think that, according to high authority,
" with a judge who acts decisively, a dispute is set at rest so far as
the general proceedings are concerned ; and the murmurs of the dis-
contented, being disregarded, soon subside." It must not be for-
gotten that "the many fortuitous circumstances there are in a course,
the difference in the situation from which different persons view it,
and the perpetual variation of the direction in which the dogs are
running, tend to mislead ; and though last, not least, we have such a
variety of opinions on what principles or points courses ought to be
decided, that the necessity for the rules and principles on which they
are founded, being generally established and uniformly recognised, is
totally and unquestionably indispensable."

The slipper's duties are hardly less responsible and arduous than
those of the judge, and at Altcar they may be said to be even more
so. Lord Sefton preserves so successfully that when the numbers of
people who come to witness the coursing approach the ground from

all quarters,

The merry brown hares come leaping

Over the crest of the hill

in such disagreeable companies that it is very often difficult to
slip a couple of greyhounds at a single hare. James Kerss gave

296 The Gentleman's Magazine.

such general satisfaction last year that he was again appointed as
slipper for the present. It may be remarked here that the term
" slipper," though it cannot need any etymological definition, is a
word of comparatively modern date, and we ought to be cautious
in allowing barbarisms to be incorporated with coursing literature.
Our coursers have already frequently rendered themselves ridiculous
by their curious sponsorial nomenclature, and there is an instance or
two in the case of the present Waterloo Cup. There was no such per-
sonage as a " slipper" — what a peculiarly unsporting sound it has ! —
in the early days of coursing, when Queen Bess, of glorious memory,,
was on the throne. In those times " it was ordered that he which
was chosen fewterer, or letter-loose of the greyhounds, shall receive
the greyhounds which are matched to run together in his leash,"
and perform the other duties pretty much upon the present plan.

It is not probable that we shall see such greyhounds as Cerito
and Master M'Grath — both three times winners of the Waterloo
Cup — contending over the plains of Altcar again ; and this year
much of the interest usually aroused among men who course only
for the sake of the sport, and who are not entirely given to making
money or to losing it, was destroyed by the early collapse of several
favourites, and by many eccentricities on the part of some nomina-
nators and of some clubs.

Mr. Mould was first in request at Tattersall's on the opening of the
new year, from the fact that he had been in treaty for the possession
of Peasant Boy, the runner-up of last year, to represent his nomina-
tion. Mr. Assheton Smith, however, allowed the dog. to represent
Mr. Blackstock, but the arrangement was not made known until
after the Carnarvon meeting, when that gentleman immediately
headed the betting, and continued in the pride of place up to the
close. Peasant Boy is by Racing Hopfactor, out of Placid, and
from the reports heard about him was well entitled to the confidence
so eagerly bestowed upon him. Meanwhile Mr. Colman had been
unfortunate in losing Cacique, who had done wonders at Newmarket,
and had even beaten Amethyst, Mr. Salter's nomination, for which
animal Mr. Salter had given no less than one hundred and thirty
guineas at a sale at Aldridge's. Mr. Haywood, always formidable,
had from accidents been obliged to fall back on Rhubarb, a respect-
able animal, but hardly up to Altcar form, and who slipped up
in the frost early in February. Lords Lurgan and Sefton, with
Lady Thriftless and Satire, were always highly dangerous, and
Mr. M'Haffie, with Wandering Willie, from the north, almost ranked
on a par with Mr. Blackstock.

The Waterloo Cup. 297

Mr. Lister, since Chloe's winning the Cup twice, has always been
regarded with dread by other competitors, with whatever he runs, and
after the form of his kennel shown by the performance of Croesus —
by Cashier out of Chloe — at the late Altcar Club Meeting, his chance
was thought good. But it should have been remembered that Mr.
Briggs's Blackburn would probably have won the stake but for his
sad accident, unless that honour had been reserved for old Bed of
Stone — the winner of last year — who was put out in an unfortunate
trial with Chameleon. Notwithstanding the victory of Croesus, Mr.
Briggs looked as formidable as any nominator in the stake, for old
Bed of Stone had performed over the soughs in her accustomed style.

The nomination of Sir Capel Molyneux having fallen vacant, it was
conferred upon Mr. Dunne, an English gentleman, and the nomination
being an Irish one, the transaction caused great annoyance to Lord
Lurgan and the Irish coursers in general, which is not greatly to be
wondered at, for it looks like a manifest piece of injustice. A sort of
indignation meeting, at which Ix>rd Lurgan presided, was held in
Ireland on the subject, and some correspondence passed between his
lordship and the Earl of Sefton. Some little misunderstandings and
anomalies of this kind are not uncharacteristic of proceedings in con-
nection with the Waterloo Cup, but the expostulation of the Irish
gentlemen on this occasion will probably not have been made without
producing an amended state of management for the future.

The Earl of Sefton, upon a representation being made to him of
the grievance which the Irish considered they suffered in this disposal
of Sir Capel Molyneux's nomination to an Englishman, forthwith
wrote to Lord Lurgan expressing his regret that any dissatisfaction
had been caused, saying : — " I have read the resolutions passed at the
meeting of coursers in Ireland, and can only assure you that any
recommendations coming from them as to the future system of dis-
tributing Waterloo nominations in Ireland shall be carefully con-
sidered by your Committee. No one appreciates more than I do the
very great assistance which you have always rendered to that Com-
mittee in their difficult task of assigning the sixty-four nominations,
and I trust that we may long count upon your services as a member
of the same."

The amende honorable having been thus made, Lord Lurgan, it is
almost unnecessary to remark, immediately wrote to his friend to say
that he was sorry to have been compelled to protest against the deci-
sion come to by a Committee with whom he had worked most
cordially. He thought that if he could have been present at the Altcar
Club Meeting a decision might have been arrived at that would have

298 The Gentleman s Magazine.

been satisfactory to all. This statement must not be regarded as self-
praise on his lordship's part, as being a superior legislator to the
other members of the Committee, but as an opinion only that as the
chosen representative of the Irish coursers he might have been able
to satisfy them by having attended to their interests. We know from
experience of proceedings in Parliament and elsewhere that loyal
Irishmen — and especially loyal Irish gentlemen, who, when they are
worthy of that epithet, are second to no other gentlemen in the
world — are easily appeased when what they imagine — they are
wonderfully imaginative — to be a grievance has been properly repre-
sented and argued. " However," says Lord Lurgan, "what has now
been done is a thing of the past, and we must turn our attention to
the future ; and in accordance with the wishes you express in so very
kind a manner, I shall gladly continue to serve on your Waterloo
Cup Committee, and do all in my power to promote the general
interests of coursing."

What a pity it is that all Irish difficulties could not be similarly
comfortably settled ! If we could only submit matters of dispute and
difference which at present distract us, and cause our legislators to
sport " vagrant rhetoric " in the vacation and talk nonsense in the
Houses in the Session, to the " arbitration " of Lords Sefton and
Lurgan — with the assistance perhaps of Lord Selborne and Lord
Chief Justice Cockburn — we should very soon arrive at a settlement
of all questions between England and the " Emerald Isle."

It is a matter of the utmost unimportance — or at least it should be
— to gentlemen what dog is declared the winner of the Waterloo
Cup, if the best greyhounds in the country are not allowed, or cannot
be procured to start for it. Descriptions of the running and the
name of the winner can now be had for a penny, and whether they
are, or can be, accurate or not it is not worth while to inquire here.
It is sufficient for all purposes, except that of betting, to have endea-
voured to show what is meant by coursing for the Waterloo Cup, and
to have explained some of its recommendations and anomalies, and
several of its deserts of disfavour.

Sirius.

'^•X^V'V^X/ V V>^> V

GUSTAVE DORE AT WORK.

T was on the 25th of October of last year, while we were
listening at the open grave of The'ophile Gautier to the sharp
vibrations of the voice in which the younger Dumas was
recounting the claims of " the great Theo." upon the love
and gratitude of all who valued letters and the arts, and his forty years
of labours ; that I turned to Dord, and thought how hardly he had
been used by critics, who had thanked him for his prodigious capacity
for work, by describing him to the world as an artist a la minute. I
found him one day over the fourth plate of his Neophyte, the three,
already far advanced, having been put away because in some of the
fine work they did not satisfy his fastidious conscientiousness. He
glanced up at me from his copper, and said quietly, answering my
look of surprise, " I have the patience of the ox, you see — as I have
often told you."

Yea, it is the patience of the ox, for ever fed by an imagination of
the most fertile power and the most extraordinary impulsiveness : an
imagination that has been directed by study in the company of
Dante and Milton, and by the inspiration of the Bible : that has
revelled in the joyeusctes of Rabelais and the "Contes Drolatiques :"
that has caught warmth from Don Quixote and from travels in his
glowing land : and that has travelled with the Wandering Jew and
lived in fable and legend, in history and poesy, through more than
twenty years of working days. The unthinking world and the careless
critic look upon the marvellous accumulation of the poet's dreams,
and fancies, which he has cast upon paper or wrought in colour ; as
evidence of the fleetness of his hand, and not of his valiant, patient
spirit, that dwells in art for ever through all its waking hours. The
page to which Dore has given a week's thought, and upon which he was
working when the critic was in bed, is described as another example
of the rapidity — and therefore the carelessness — with which the artist
tosses off a poem, or embodies a legend. A caricaturist has had the
audacity to draw the illustrator of Dante with pencils in both hands
and between the toes of both feet — ignorant of the necessity under
which a fervid and incessantly creative imagination like Gustave
Dora's, exists.

I repeat, Dore* cannot get out of his art. He is almost incapable

300 The Gentlematis Magazine.

<of relaxation. While you sit at table with him, you note the sudden
pauses in the conversation, in which his eyes wander from the com-
pany to his land of dreams. On the instant he is away from you, and
his face wears an expression of dreamy sadness, at which a stranger
will start, but that is familiar to his friends, who humour him back to
them with a laugh. His Rabelais, his " Contes Drolatiques," and
his Don Quixote, proclaim that he has humour. It is of a grim
kind often, in his work, as the reader may see in the splendid new
edition of his Rabelais, just published by Garniers Brothers. Bat
it is boisterous, free, and sometimes fine and delicate ; as his admirers
can testify who remember his albums and his contributions to the
Journal pour Eire. In the new Rabelais — a noble production,
rich in the various qualities necessary to the illustrator of the great
railleur of the middle ages — we find, in conjunction with the young work
of the artist (1854) — rough, but brilliant and joyous, laughing with
the laughing text — the finer pencilling and the richer brain of his
maturity. The two superb volumes, in which all that Dore* has to
say with his pencil on Frangois Rabelais is set out richly by printer
and binder ; comprehend examples of the ranges of observation, the
circles of dreams, and the styles and effects that are to be found
in his extraordinary work as an illustrator. Rabelais is nearer, in
general quality, to the " Contes Drolatiques " than any of Dore* s
other works ; but it is superior to the Balzac inteq^retations in this,
that it contains samples of the artist's highest work, as the ark in
the origin of Pantagruel, in Pantagruel defying the three hundred
giants ; or, again, Pantagruel's entry into Paris ; or, in short, a score
of examples I might cite from "Gargantua." Rabelais and Don
Quixote I should instance as the fields in which the artist has
delighted most, as Dante and the Bible are the stores on which the
highest force in him has been lavishly expended — never in haste, as
1 am able to testify. Before the pencil approached either of these
labours, the artist's mind had travelled again and again over die pages;
his imagination had dwelt upon every line, he had talked and thought
about his theme in his walks and among his intimates. Patiently and
incessantly the work coming in hand — the work next to be done —
is investigated, parcelled out, put together, and pulled to pieces.
There is not the least sign of haste, but there is labour without inter-
mission, which, to the sluggish worker, produces a quantity that
proves haste. I have known many artists, many men of letters, many
scientific men, and many wonder-workers in the material world ; but
in none of them have I seen that capacity for continuous effort, and
that impossibility of getting clear of the toil of production, which

Gustave Dor 6 at Work. 30 1

J)ore possesses. He will never escape the charge of haste, because
.he will never slacken to the average hours of production. His entire
heart and being Hie within the walls of his studio. It is a place of
prodigious proportions. Every trowel-full of it has come out of his
.brain-pan, and his ardent and intrepid spirit fills it to the rafters, and
turns to account every ray of light that pours through his windows.
The student of Gustave Dore must understand his thoroughness and
^vehemence as a creator, and be able to count the hours he spends in
giving shape to his creations ; before he can estimate the artist's con-
scientiousness and, I will say, his religious care to do his utmost,
-even on a tail-piece to an appendix.

As his fellow traveller through the light and shade of London
during two or three seasons, I had many fresh opportunities of watching
the manner in which Dore approaches a great subject. The idea of
it germinates slowly in his mind. We dwelt on London, and the
-ways in which it should be grasped, many mornings over the break-
fast table ; and through the hours of many excursions by land and
water. Before any plan of pilgrimage had been settled, Dore had a
score of note-books full of suggestive bits, and had made a gigantic
.album full of finished groups and scenes ; while I had filled quires
of paper. Petit a petit /'o/seau fait son nid. We picked up straws,
feathers, pebbles, clay, and bit by bit made the nest. You wonder
how the swallows build the solid cups they fix under your eaves.
These appear to have come by enchantment when for the first time
you notice wings fluttering above your windows. But the birds have
been at work with every peep of day — have never paused nor
slackened.

It is in the Dore' Gallery, however, rather than in the illustrated
Avorks — marvellous as these are — of the artist, that his untiring power
is most strikingly manifested ; at the same time it is here that he has
been most grievously misunderstood. Half the critics have begun
by expressing their astonishment at the rapidity of the painter ; and
then they have gone on to remark that it is a pity he does not give
more time to his pictures. This shows marks of haste ; that is
crude, thin, and in parts scarcely half developed; the other is a
mere sketch. But here is the product of twenty years : for in all
his life Dore' has covered only fifty-three canvasses !

No wonder that men stand astonished, confounded by the pro-
digious labours gathered under the fire of one man's genius into
a gallery, and filling it. No wonder, again, that these should
come into the gallery jealous, carping, poor artists turned critics,
crying "Rubbish!'' A writer in no less a journal than the Athcnceum
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. y

*%

02 The Gentleman's Magazine.

observed, as the result of his visit, speaking of the Neophyte —
"This picture will stand M. Dore* in good stead; the rest is
trashy Then this writer turned to the portrait of Rossini after
death : —

As to the much bepraised post mortem portrait of Rossini, we confess to sicken-
ing at it. One does not slap one's breast over the body of one's dead friend*
then paint his likeness, and show it for a shilling. Irreverent of the dignity or
death, if one did so deeply sin against love, it would be in a very different way
from this— not by propping the poor corpse on pillows, neatly parting its hair,
ordering its hands, putting a crucifix above the lately-beating heart, closing the
eyes, and painting it, not well, with all sentimental accessories. Had the painter's
art carried us beyond this travesty of sorrow, an old master's example might have
been pleaded, but the things differ not less in heart than in pathos. The master
who did a thing not unlike in subject to this was a master, and did not display his
work with the advantages of an "exhibition light." This is one of those things
which they do not do better in France than in England.

That it has been much " bepraised " seemed to turn what spare
allowance of milk of human kindness the critic might carry with himr
at once. The delicacy with which the great artist dwelt on the
subject, and shrank from the exhibition of it, is known to all
who have had the slightest personal contact with him. It is the
unenviable privilege of coarse natures to wound all those who are of
finer metal whom they touch. The reader is besought to dwell on
the astonishing lowness of the following sentence : — " One does not
slap one's breast over the body of one's dead friend, then paint his-
likeness, and show it for a shilling. *' The charge implied in this is
unjustifiable, because it is one that the individual who will feel it
most acutely, must disdain to answer. Among gentlemen there
could not possibly be two opinions as to its taste ; among men of
heart there could not possibly be two opinions as to the unwarrant-
able nature of the imputation.

Mark again the clodhopper hand, when the description is intended
to be strong. " Neatly parting " the hair of Rossini ! The ignorance
implied in this passage is condemnation enough. " Ordering its
hands, putting a crucifix upon the lately-beating heart ! " Has the
writer yet to learn that the crucifix is put upon every lately-beating
heart, and that the seemly disposition of the hands is the attitude
with which all who have stood in chambers of death, in the country
where Rossini died, are familiar ?

Was not the disposition of the body of the Emperor in the
Graphic the other clay, exactly that of Rossini ? The contriver of
clumsy phrases, generally thorny and spiteful save about a certain
few, did a positive harm to Dore in this instance. The people

Gustave Dord at Work. 303

who know Dore^s gallant life; his sensitive, delicate, highly-
wrought mind ; and his passionate love of Rossini's art (of
which Dore is so brilliant a connoisseur and so accomplished an
executant) will dismiss the clownish condemnation against which I
have felt bound as an Englishman to protest.

It would seem that on a certain morning the Athenaum^ on the
look out for an anatomist in matters artistic, fell in with a
slaughterman.

The Saturday Review is in advantageous contrast to the AtJienceum
in its attitude towards Dore. In the Review the many sides of the
best-known artist of our epoch, are considered. " Gustave Dore* stands
just now as the most startling art-phenomenon in Europe; his genius
at each turn changes, like colours in a kaleidoscope, into something
new and unexpected."

Surely this is truer than the statement that, the Neophyte apart,
the Dore* Gallery is trash — or was when the critic visited it In
the one instance there is prejudice, coarseness of feeling, jaundice ;
in the other there is a liberal outlook upon the whole of the art-life
of a man of genius.

The foregoing remarks on Dore* as a worker have been provoked
by a pictorial summary of the events of last season, in which he is
represented as one of our distinguished visitors, armed with pencils
and brushes at all points. He is painting, drawing, and sketching
(I wonder he is not eating and drinking also) at the same moment.
The caricaturist's level of criticism is about as true and just as that
of the Athenceum critic.

Let the reader now contemplate the last and greatest effort of the
poet-artist's power —

Christ leaving the Prjetorium.

The canvas is thirty feet by twenty. In regard to execution it is a
marvellous tour de force: and the depth and pathos of the concep-
tion are extraordinary. The beholder is fairly startled and bewildered
by the prodigious tumult that encompasses the sublime central figure,
which commands an awful quiet round about it — a quiet that im-
presses like the agonising stillness which is the centre of a cyclone.
The reality of the prodigious host that hems the Saviour round about
after judgment, and His distance from the brutal soldiers, who guard
Him and lead the way ; are effects which only genius of the highest
order could conceive. The stages by which the fervid dream grew
to this mighty thing — the child of one brain, formed by one pair of

y 2

304 The Gentlemaris Magazine.

never-resting hands — return vividly to me while I sit wondering — who
have looked upon the canvas hundreds of times, during the slow
process of years which has covered it; and which has filled every square
foot of it with the heat and glow of life, and sublimated the whole
with the sacred tragedy that is the centre and impulse of it. The
patient drawing of groups ; the days and nights spent in endeavours
to realise the dream of the One Presence amid the multitude ; the
painting and repainting; the studies of impulse to be impressed upon
each of the crowd of men and women ; and the exact poise of light
and shade ; were accomplished with a fervour that burned through
every difficulty, and swept away every hindrance. Haste ! I who
remember this most solemn sum of work, in nearly all its particulars;
and used to speculate so often and anxiously on the fate of the great
canvas, while the Germans were throwing shells into Paris; who
watched the ever-heightening excitement with which, after the
war ended, and the picture had been disinterred, the toil was
resumed and carried triumphantly to an end ; who have seen the
righteous thought which has preceded the fold of coarse garment,
and the articulation of every limb; and lived in the excitement
which filled the last days the canvas was to remain under the artist's
hand ; still wonder more than any outsider at the vast expenditure
of power that is spread before me. Aye, in this, the hands answered
to the brain-pan of the poet with " the patience of the ox." They were
trained upon the Neophyte, and upon the Triumph of Christianity —
to this crowning effort, in which may be seen traces of the Byzan-
tine school, of Raffaelle, of study, in short, of the great styles of the
past — but in which the genius of Dor£ shines with a lustre all its
own.

The idealist and the realist are before us. While the turbulent
host appears to move upon the spectator, and the ear almost
strains to catch' the deep murmurs of the passionate mob, the
sublime motive of the whole fills the mind with awe. There may be
many opinions on the means and methods by which the thrilling
effect is produced ; but there can be only one as to the extraordinary
force of it upon the mind. It compels an emotion deeper than any
which painter has produced in our time. The daring of the gifted
man who produced it compels the spectator's respect — in these days,
when so many artists are content to dwell in prettiness for ever — to
follow the fashion of the day, and to execute to order with the
obedience of the sign painter.

By heroic work from dawn to dusk, through the boyish years
mo it lads give at least somewhat to pleasure, the long path has

Gustave DorS at Work. 305

been travelled to this gallery. It has been more than a journey
round the world. The tentative work scattered by the way is
prodigious, but a pure thirst for the highest fame has been the
unfailing incentive.

As in illustration Dore has been schooling himself through many
years' study of Rabelais, Dante, and Cervantes to Shakespeare,
which is to be presently his magnum opts: so in painting he
has been gallantly fighting his way per ardua ad a/fa. Never in
haste, but always at work — should be upon the shield of my
illustrious and gallant friend.

Blanch ard Jerrold.

shakespeare's philosophers
and Jesters.

BY CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE.

I.— PHILOSOPHERS.

*Y reason for classing together Shakespeare's philo-
sophers and jesters in this series of essays is because
his philosophers are wont to be fine jesters, and his
. best jesters dispense profoundest philosophy. The
great poet knew that the highest wisdom frequently takes the form of
wit ; while a sportive word will often convey a grave thought. The
wisest heart will vent itself in a gay sally, when the lightest tongue gives
utterance to a weighty reflection ; knowledge is sometimes promulgated
through a playful speech, as the solemn fact lurks within the mirth-
ful sentence. There is a proverbial expression, " Many a true word
spoken in jest ;" and Shakespeare has paraphrased the maxim, in
"Jesters do oft prove prophets." Very appropriately may his
philosophers be consorted with his jesters: since his philosophy
contains so bland and cheerful a spirit; and his jesting so much
of serious meaning.

My plan upon the present occasion is to give (as succinctly as
possible) an abstract of the salient characteristics of each creation of
the poet brought forward in illustration ; and then proceed to point
out their several best philosophical or most witty passages. My inten-
tion is less to enumerate his several philosophers as individual charae
ters, than to collect their finest philosophical utterances ; less to anim-
advert upon his several jesters, in their own capacities, than to gather
together their best and most pregnant jests. I shall not so much
instance his set philosophers— wisdom professors — of which there are
but few among his dramatis persona, as I shall adduce and descant
upon his own pure social philosophy and heart-wisdom, which he
has infused into so many of his characters. With its own gentle
force — subtlest force, intensest force — it pervades equally the wild
sublime of Lear's passion, the might of Othello's anguish, the
maternal grief of Constance, the meek-borne injuries of Imogen,

Shakespeare 's Philosophers and Jesters. 307

the reflective mind of Hamlet, the hard intellect of Iago, the fero-
cious levity of Richard, the unscrupulous ambition of Lady Macbeth,
the wit of Benedick, the faith of Troilus, the sprightliness of Rosa-
lind, the jocund ease of Feste the clown ; — nay, the very fancy and
imaginative grace of Ariel, Oberon, and Robin Goodfellow — all in
turn are made the medium of this beautiful wisdom and philosophy
of our poet-teacher. It is never obtruded, never paraded — never
foisted in ; but it exists easily, spontaneously, instinctively — accom-
panying every event of life and every phase of character depicted
by him with the same integral consociation as that with which its
spirit imbues the whole expanse of created Nature.

I have said that Shakespeare seldom drew a professed philosopher.
There occurs but one actual specimen regularly so styled and so
delineated in the entire range of the dramas ; and that one is Ape-
mantus, in the play of "Timon of Athens." He appears among the
list of dramatis persona thus : " Apemantus, a churlish philosop/ier"
If there be one characteristic more than another that Shakespeare
seems to have loathed, it is that of churlishness. A morose fastidious-
ness ; a disposition to find fault, and to be discontented with life and
with mankind, were subjects of peculiar antipathy to Shakespeare's
genial nature. His large candour, his wide benevolence, his universal
toleration, could not let him sympathise with a cynicism which is the
growth of spleen and self-love rather than of real superiority. These
ostensible philosophers — these wisdom-mongers, would fain have
their crabbed disgust believed to be the offspring of greatness (like
that loftily squeamish gentleman in Voltaire's story, who is thus
described by a doting admirer : " What a great man ! What a first
rate genius ! Nothing pleases him I), but it is in fact the result of a
spurious misanthropy, more nearly allied to malice and envy than
to a genuine scorn or indignation. And so has he drawn this Ape-
mantus— base-born and base-natured, he takes up the profession of
railer against society as much from a bloated conceit of his own
superiority as in revenge for his own sordid condition. He is well
-contrasted with the steward, Flavius, who in his humble station rises
superior to the cynical admonisher. The affected philosopher, and
the unaffected judicious observer; the professed hater, and the
attached servitor ; the snarler, and the faithful retainer ; the acrid
wiseacre, and the genial honest man, are forcibly brought into
opposition. Flavius's excellent common sense and plain practical
wisdom, with kindly feeling and affectionate heart, shine out nobly
against the studied and acted rancour of the other.

Apemantus is more rude than caustic ; more insolent than stem.

308 The Gentleman s Magazine.

He is spiteful, sneering, and restlessly sarcastic. He is wearisome
in his perpetual effort to be severe. No wonder that Timon, when
he is driving him off, exclaims, as he flings a stone after him, "Away,
thou tedious rogue!" He is vain of his splenetic mood, and values
himself upon his ill-nature. When the Fool makes some fleering
rejoinder, he says, " That answer might have become Apemantus,'"
as though he really grudged another a snappish retort When Timon
greets him on his entrance with, "Good-morrow to thee, gentle
Apemantus," he replies, "Till I be gentle, stay for my good-morrow;"
as though proud of his &whood. His mere railing grates upon
Timon's sore feelings in the period of his adversity, whose resent-
ments lie too deep for such wordy abuse as Apemantus's. Timon's
wounded heart shrinks from joining in these shallow and brawling
vituperations. His grave sense of injury will not let him find comfort
in the conventional cynicisms of the habitual churl. He knows that
he has real cause to feel what the other only affects to feel. The
poet could scarcely have given us a stronger impression of Timon's
genuine wrongs, and of his being wounded to the soul at them, than
by the way in which he has made him reject fellowship with Ape-
mantus. Timon knows that his own griefs — his absolute expe-
rience—supply him with far greater truths of bitterness than any
uttered by the professional philosopher. Therefore, when Apemantusr
accusing him of aping philosophic acrimony, says, " Do not assume
my likeness," Timon indignantly retorts, "Were I like thee, I?d throw
away myself." And upon Apemantus proceeding to school him farther,,
how grandly the real sufferer, in his galled wrath, turns upon the
amateur complainer, and how fine is the poetic diction throughout !
Apemantus tauntingly asks : —

Think'st thou the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
Wilt put thy shirt on warm ? Will these moss'd trees,
That have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels,
And skip when thou point'st out ? Will the cold brook,
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,
To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit ? Call the creatures, —
Whose naked natures live in all the spite
Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks,
To the conflicting elements expos 'd,
Answer mere nature, — bid them flatter thee ;
O ! thou shalt find-
TV///. A fool of thee : — Depart !
Apem. I love thee better now than e'er I did.
Tim. I hate thee worse.
Apem. Why ?
Tim. Thou flatter' st miser}*.

Shakespeare s Philosophers and Jesters. 309

Apcm. I flatter not ; but say, thou art a caitiff.
Tim. Why dost thou seek me out ?
Apem. To vex thee.

Tim. Always a villain's office, or a fool's :

Dost please thyself in't ?
Apem. Ay.

Tim. What ! a knave too ?

Apem. If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on

To castigate thy pride, 'twere well ; but thou

Dost it enforcedly ; — thoud'st courtier be again,

Wert thou not a beggar. Willing misery

Outlives incertain pomp, is crown'd before :

The one is filling still, never complete ;

The other, at high wish : Best state, contentless,

Hath a distracted and most wretched being.

Worse than the worst, content. .

Thou should'st desire to die, being miserable.
Tim. Not by his breath, that is more miserable.

Thou art a slave, whom Fortune's tender arm

With favour never clasp'd ; but bred a dog.

Hadst thou, like us, from our first swath, proceeded

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords

To such as may the passive drugs of it

Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself

In general riot ; and never learn'd

The icy precepts of respect, that follow'd

The sugar'd game before thee. But myself,

Who had the world as my confectionary :

The mouths, the tongues, the eyes, the hearts of men

At duty more than I could frame employment ;

That numberless upon me stuck, as leaves

Do on the oak, have with one winter's brush

Fell from their boughs, and left me open, bare

For every storm that blows : — I, to bear this,

That never knew but better, is some burden.

Thy nature did commence in sufPrance ; time

Hath made thee hard in't. Why shouldst thou hate men ?

They never flatter'd thee : What hast thou given ?■ Hence, begone I

If thou hadst not been born the worst of men,

Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer.
Apem. Art thou proud yet ?

Tim. Ay; that I am not thee.

There is a short scene in this same play of " Timon of Athens "
where Shakespeare, with his usual skill in casuistry, has argued a
question on both sides, — the question of violence, bloodshed, and
homicide; together with what should be the leniency or severity
such crime ought to meet from its judges. The senator who takes
the stricter view has a fine remark upon moral courage : it is this :

3 10 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer
The worst that men can breathe ; and make his wrongs
His outsides ; wear them, like his raiment, carelessly ;
And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, •

To bring it into danger.

He also finely says : —

Quarrelling is valour misbegot, and came into the world
When sects and factions were newly born.

There are two philosophers, historically renowned as such — tradi-
tional sages — whom Shakespeare has introduced among his delinea-
tions. I allude to Nestor and Ulysses. The latter always figures as "the
wise Ulysses," " the prudent Ulysses," " the politic Ulysses " — the
man of caution, experience, and knowledge : great in counsel, all-
sufficient in advice, unfailing in resource. He sustains his reputation on
the dramatist's page ; for from him flow choicest axioms and shrewdest
comment, in teeming abundance. His brain devises wisdom; his mouth
delivers wisdom ; his deeds enact wisdom ; he thinks, speaks, and
practises wisdom. He plans the most artful schemes, and carries
them out consummately. He was conceived, born, bred, and versed
in strategy; and so conversant is he with human foibles, that he
brings his strategy to bear with uniform success, in consequence of
knowing how to adapt and administer it with due regard to this
science in humanity. How adroitly does he play off the bullying
Ajax upon the pride-swollen Achilles — turning the conceit of the one
and the arrogance of the other to the fulfilment of his own views
upon both ! With what . skill he humours, cajoles, induces, or
enforces ! With what rapidity and acuteness he discerns the light
and unstable character of Cressida ; estimates the sterling worth of
Troilus ; recognises Diomed ; or greets Hector ! How justly he
penetrates the characters and gauges the moral and intellectual
dimensions of all those around him ! He is as prompt and keen in
observation of individuals as he is proficient in abstract acquaintance '
with mankind in general. There is not more pregnant eloquence in
all the characters of Shakespeare than streams from his lips : he,
indeed, hath a "mouth speaking great things" — a true Chrysostom
(golden-mouth). As I have elsewhere cited the chief apothegms,
or pointed sayings, of Ulysses, I shall here quote one of his finest and
most philosophical speeches — that upon " Degree." It is a superb
vindication of the merits — say, the virtue — of order, and comprises the
philosophy of rank, precedence, and appointed station, or " Degree."

He says : —

The heavens themselves, the planets and this centre.
Observe degree, priority, and place,

Shakespeare s Philosophers and Jesters. 3 1 1

Insiture, course, proportion, season, form,

Office and custom in all line of order :

And therefore is the glorious planet, Sol,

In noble eminence enthron'd and spher'd,

Amidst the other, whose med'cinable eye

Corrects the ill aspetts of planets evil,

And posts, like the commandment of a king,

Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets,

In evil mixture, to disorder wander,

"What plagues, and what portents ! what mutiny !

What raging of the sea, shaking of earth,

Commotion in the winds, frights, changes, horrors,

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate

The unity and married calm of states

Quite from their fixure ! Oh ! when Degree is shak'd,

Which is the ladder to all high designs,

The enterprise is sick. How could communities,

Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,

Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,

The primogenitive and due of birth,

Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,

But by Degree stand in authentic place ?

Take but Degree away, untune that string,

And, hark, what discord follows ! each thing meets

In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters

Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,

And make a sop of all this solid globe.

Strength should be lord of imbecility,

And the rude son should strike his father dead :

Force should be right ; or, rather, right and wrong

(Between whose endless jar justice resides)

Should lose their names, and so should justice, too.

Then everything includes itself in power :

Power into will, will into appetite ;

And appetite, a universal wolf,

So doubly seconded with will and power,

Must make, perforce, a universal prey,

And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,

This chaos, when Degree is suffocate,

Follows the choking :

And this neglection of Degree it is,

That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose

It hath to climb. The General's disdain'd

By him one step below ; he by the next ;

The next by him beneath : so every step,

Exampled by the first pace that is sick

Of his superior, grows to an envious fever

Of pale and bloodless emulation :

And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,

Not her own sinews. — To end a talc of length,

Troy in our weakness stands — not in her strength.

312 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

This speech is like an essay by Bacon put into metred language.
No feature in Shakespeare's social character seems more distinct than
that he was a quiet is t, and in all generals, a Conservative. He con-
stantly gives indication of an abstract reverence for " time-honoured
institutions." Imogen says, " Breach of custom is breach of all,"
and examples to the same effect might be multiplied. He would
have been the last man to have " removed his neighbour's landmark "
— not altogether from the injustice of the act — although upon that
ground he would have been consistent \ but from an experienced
sense of rule and order. His system of philosophy seems to have
run undeviatingly on that tramway.

Hamlet is the prince of poetical philosophers, moralising upon life,
upon mankind, upon himself, out of the depths of his own intelli-
gence ; while Prospero is a princely philosopher, whose wisdom is
chiefly derived from books and studious contemplation ; but upon
both these individual creations of our poet's brain I have dwelt at
such length in my "Shakespeare Characters" as to preclude the
necessity of here discussing the peculiarity of their several philo-
sophic temperaments.

As Hamlet is the greatest of all Shakespeare's moral philosophers,
so is Iago the strongest of his ////-moral philosophers. Iago's philo-
sophy is the worst of immorality, for it holds that evil is power ;
that good is a nonentity ; that vice is an acquisition ; and that
virtue is a tning to be avoided, or to be taken advantage of — in either
case, a weakness. Here is some of this "reasoning wretch's*'
immoral philosophy. When, for instance, protesting he loves not
the Moor, and Roderigo naturally enough observes, " I would not
follow him then,*' Iago replies : —

O ! sir, content you.
I follow him to serve my turn upon him :
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly followed. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,
For naught hut provender ; and when he's old, cashier'd.
Whip me such honest knaves : others there are
Who, trimm'd in forms and usages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves ;
And throwing hut shows of service on their lords
Do well thrive by them ; and when they've lin'd their coats
Do themselves homage : these fellows have some soul —
And such a one do I profess myself.

Again, when Michael Cassio, wrung with self-reproach, exclaims :

Shakespeare's Philosophers and Jesters. 3 1 3

11 Reputation, reputation, reputation ! O ! I have lost my reputa-
tion ! I have lost the immortal part, sir, of myself; and what
remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!" the
fiend comforter answers: — "As I am an honest man, I thought
you had received some bodily wound. There is more offence in that
than in * Reputation.' Reputation is an idle and most false imposi-
tion, oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have
lost no reputation at all — unless you repute yourself such a loser."

His own sophistry is flatly contradicted by himself afterwards, in
the hypocritical and famous speech of virtuous indignation which he
makes to Othello : —

Good name in man or woman,*dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls.

Who steals my purse steals trash ; 'tis something — nothing :

'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands :

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him,

And makes me poor indeed !

And how accurately this supreme villain knows the mischief he is

working : —

Trifles, light as air,

Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong

As proofs of holy writ. — This may do something.

The Moor already changes with my poison :

Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons,

Which at the first are scarce found to distaste —

But, with a little act upon the blood,

Burn like the mines of sulphur.

Yet with diabolical composure he steadily administers this poison.
Xo one among Shakespeare's men of intellect utters stronger axioms
of social and moral philosophy than this remarkable character. The
career which he had chalked out for himself furnished him the motive
for this ; and his mental power and energy were stimulants to his
motive.

That Iago's is a voluntary system — a deliberate choice and pursuit
of wickedness — his own words prove in glaring and marvellous
strength : —

Virtue ? a fig ! 'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our
gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners : so that, if we will plant nettles,
nr sow lettuce ; set hyssop, and weed up thyme ; supply it with one gender of
herbs, or distract it with many; either to have it sterile with idleness, or manured
with industry — why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills.

Iago's is the philosophy of diabolism.

3 1 4 The Gentlemaiis Magazine.

Another of these systematic evil philosophers is Richard III.
He purposely and consciously makes selection of villainy as the wiser
and fruitfuller course of action. He adopts it as his creed, and exer-
cises it as his chosen vocation. He cultivates " crooked wisdom," as
harmonising with his own deformity. He cherishes obliquity of
character, as matching with his own tortuous person. He follows
sinister courses and devious policy, as consonant with his own mis-
shapen frame. He fosters a perverted intellect and a wryed
conscience, as part and parcel of his ugly conformation : in short, he
is a mental and physical unity of depravation. He at once abets
Fate, and avenges himself upon it by rendering his moral and mental
being no less disfigured and repulsive than his corporeal frame. He
distinctly declares this, saying : —

Since the heavens have shap'd my body so,
Let hell make crook'd mv mind to answer it.

And subsequently confirms his determination : —

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

Created of feature by dissembling nature,

Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionably

That the dogs bark at me as I halt by them —

Why I, in this weak, piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,

And descant on mine own deformity :

And therefore — since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair, well-spoken days,

I am determin'd to prove a villain,

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

And Richard's whole subsequent career, to its fierce and strenuous
close, is a practical illustration of this — his demon-philosophy.

The King in "All's Well that Ends Well" is a gentle moraliserand
a kindly-tempered man. Sickness and suffering have taught hiro
philosophy, and made him a philosopher. m They have taught him
to be tolerant, liberal-minded, and reflective : they have made him
patient, forbearing, considerate ; temperate in speech, and guarded in
judgment. They have inspired him with that affecting fortitude
which enables ill-health to assume a cheerful tone in the midst of its
pain. He summons energy to deliver that spirited charge to his
young lords whom he is despatching to the wars, bidding them let
the enemy see that they "Come, not to woo honour, but to wed it:

9>

Shakespeare s Philosophers and Jesters.

OlD

and he can also find good-humour to tolerate the chirping tone of his
faithful old adherent, Lafeu, when he comes to tell him of expected
cure, in a style of playfulness, which he trusts may infect his royal
master with some of his own hope. He delivers a speech upon false
pride, full of sound reasoning, and containing one noble sentiment,
— right royal in its moral truth, and therefore well befitting a royal
mouth. The sentence is this : —

Honours best thrive
When rather from our acts we them derive,
Than our fore-goers.

And in the last scene he utters two reflections that bespeak the

aged man who has learnt many a sad truth of experience. He

says : —

Let's take the instant by the forward top ;

For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees

Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of Time

Steals, ere we can effect them.

The second passage mournfully instances that too-late remorse
which is so prone to supervene upon the loss of a friend ; when ever}'
remembered careless word, or thoughtless slighting act— deemed
at the time of little moment — smites us with a cruel force of self-
reproach. The kind old royal philosopher says : —

Our rash faults
Make trivial price of serious things we have,
Not knowing them, until we know their grave.
Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust.

*

The friar in "Much Ado about Nothing" and the friar in "Romeo
and Juliet " are both monastic philosophers ; and afford such aid, in
counsel and consolation, to their mundane brethren, as their wisdom
and experience suggest. The former — the friar in " Much Ado " — is
quiet, observant ; patiently abiding his time to speak, until his silent
comment shall have enabled him to deliver judgment upon the case
before him. His close noting of the belied heroine, Hero's, demean-
our, having convinced him of her innocence, he advises the plan of
reporting her sudden death ; and thus sagely explains his motive : —

It so falls out
That what we have we prize not to the worth
Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value ; then we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
Whiles it was ours : so will it fare with Claudio ;

3 1 6 The Gentleniarts Magazine.

When he shall hear she died upon his words,

The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination ;

And ever}* lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparelPd in more precious habit,

More moving-delicate and full of life,

Into the eye and prospect of his soul,

Than when she lived indeed. Then shall he mourn

(If ever love had interest in his liver),

And wish he had not so accused her ;

Xo, though he thought his accusation true.

That last line is instinct with touching knowledge of human
charity — or love. It uses forbearance towards the guilt of one lost
for ever. Pity, rather than blame, attends the faults of the dead ;
and survivors feel inclined to visit even sin with regret rather than
reproach.

The other friar — Friar Laurence — the friar in " Romeo and
Juliet/' is bland, meditative, studious. He goes forth with the dawn
to cull simples, and descants upon their rare excellences and healing
properties in a strain of poetical enthusiasm worthy of an early riser
and a botaniser. I dare not indulge myself with quoting his exquisite
and well-known speech, beginning: —

The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, &c.

1 must content myself with recalling some of his higher philosophic
sentences, at the same time noting how the loveliest charm of
imaginative diction clothes the wise utterances of this gentle old con-
fessor. His greeting to Romeo, for instance, when he enters his

<:ell : — ■

Bencdicite ! —

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me ?

Young son, it argues a distempered head

So soon to bid good-morrow to thy bed.

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,

And where care lodges sleep will never lie ;

But where unbruised youth, with unstuff'd brain,

Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

How prudently he chides the rapturous rashness of the young

lover : —

These violent delights have violent ends,

And in their triumphs die ; like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,

And in his taste confounds the appetite ;

Therefore, love moderately ; long love doth so ;

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Shakespeare s Philosophers and Jesters. 317

.And, upon Juliet's approach, he adds : —

Here comes the lady : O ! so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.
A lover may bestride the gossamer,

' ■

That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall, so light is vanity.

Wolsey is the philosopher of adversity \ or rather, his philosophy
assumes a more purely philosophic character after his downfall.
Previously, his utterances are those of the astute worldling : the fertile
ambitious brain, teeming with shrewd calculations upon advancement,
power, domination, together with confident assertions of success, or well
adapted speeches for winning success. Contrast the arrogant, irrespon-
sible style of the following sentence with the subdued, reflective tone of
his subsequent ones. In the hour of his high assured position he

says : —

We must not stint
Our necessary actions in the fear
To cope malicious censurers ; which ever
As ravenous fishes do a vessel follow
That is new trimm'd ; but benefit no further
Than vainly longing. What v:e oft do best,
By sick interpreters (once weak ones), is
Not ours, or not allow'd. What worst, as oft,
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up
For our best act. If we shall stand still,
In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,
We should take root here where we sit, or sit
State Statues only.

But in the winter and destitution of his fortune, how clear-sightedly
he moralises : and in how subdued a tone ! —

This is the state of man :— to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him.
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ;
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me ; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

And his closing speech of warning to his secretary, Cromwell, shows

him to have attained one of the grandest secrets in philosophy —
Vol. X., N.S. 1873. z

3 1 8 The Gentlematis Magazine.

that of self-knowledge ; and a perception of that which wrought his.
overthrow. With an affectionate sympathy for the after career of his.
pupil and confidential servant, he says : —

Mark but my fate, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition :
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ?
Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

[A golden rule, that last line !]

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, O ! Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.

The magnanimity displayed in Wolsey's downfall, as contrasted
with the previous grandeur of his haughtiness and insolence of
dominion, is one among the crowd of examples that might be adduced
of Shakespeare's equal power in antithetical portraiture.

Brutus is the philosopher of patriotic duty and of abstract general
good. He is a stoic philosopher, with a heart swayed by the gentlest
and most benevolent emotions. He cultivates self-negation, self-
devotion, self-immolation, where the common weal demands his
individual sacrifice. At the call of public benefit he is ever ready to
surrender private satisfaction. His friendship for Caesar, his affection
for Portia, his wife, are merged in his love of country. For the sake
of Rome's advantage he willingly yields his single Roman content,
welfare, or even life. His sentiments are calm, sober, dispassionate,
almost phlegmatic. Here are a few of them, as illustrations of the
peculiar feature of his philosophy. In one place he remarks : —

That we shall die, we know ; 'tis but the time,
And drawing days out that men stand upon.

His own nature, schooled to a stern impassiveness by the stoical
teaching of his philosophy, is self-shown when he speaks of himself as
one

That carries anger as the flint bears fire ;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

He thus forcibly describes a conceived intention : — •

Between* the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream :
The genius and the mortal instruments

SJiakespeares Philosophers and Jesters. 319

Are then in council ; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.

Elsewhere he says : —

The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins
Remorse from power.

Adding : —

'Tis a common proof
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,
Whereto the climber upward turns his face ;
But when he once attains the topmost round,
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend.

It i6 Brutus who makes that very acute remark : —

When love begins to sicken and decay,
It useth an enforced ceremony.
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith :
But hollow men, like horses hot at hand,
Make gallant show and promise of their mettle ;
But when they should endure the bloody spur,
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades,
Sink in the trial.

And his is the celebrated aphorism — instinct with the very quint*
essence of wisdom — or philosophy, in promptitude : —

There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune :
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

I think no one character in all the dramas of Shakespeare delivers
nobler philosophy, in the guise of axiom and rule of conduct, than
the illustrious Marcus Brutus; and his prominent mental charac-
teristic is sententiousness.

Cerimon, the worthy old Ephesian lord in the play of " Pericles>,,

who studies medicine from pure benevolence to his fellow creatures,

is a philanthropist as well as a philosopher. Among a number of

sage acts and sayings, he has one admirably wise sentiment, well

becoming the mouth of a man, himself of high rank, wealthy, and

greatly erudite. He says : —

I held it ever,
Virtue and cunning

[Which formerly was used to express " knowledge" or " skill w]

were endowments greater
Than nobleness or riches. Careless heirs

z 2

32p The Gentleman s Magazine.

May the two latter darken and expend ;
But immortality attends the former,
Making a man a god.

I have thus far instanced those among Shakespeare's philosophic
characters mainly grave in disposition ; the latter portion of my
present essay shall be devoted to citing those who are chiefly distin-
guished by the gaiety that pervades their philosophy.

Gratiano, the mercurial gentleman in " The Merchant of Venice,"
presents himself first to the fancy as the foremost among gay and
chirping philosophers. Gratiano is a cheerful fellow upon principle —
a laughter-loving, careless trifler on conviction. He has a theory of
vivacity, a system of gaiety, a philosophy of lightheartedness.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come !

lie exclaims —

And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

He is convivial from mere prudence, blithe and jocund from settled
purpose. He is a rattlepate on close calculation, a merry grig upon
rational argument, demonstration, and proof. He cultivates thought-
lessness upon serious consideration, and feels morally convinced that
to. be joyous and lively is your only true wisdom. He fosters
frivolity upon the maturest deliberation, and holds that to nourish and
promote gladness of spirit is the one important duty of life. He is
the genius of joy — an incarnation of mirth. He triumphantly asks : —

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his gnmdsire, cut in alabaster ?
Sleep when he wakes ? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish ?

He really has solid reason on his side, and, moreover, his philosophy
is most wholesome. He is well versed, too, in the effects of a too
eager pursuit of pleasure, and can speak to good purpose upon
gratification and satiety. For he, on another occasion, says :— •

Who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down ?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unabated fire
That he did pace them first ? All things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.

The good old lord, Gonzalo, in the play of "The Tempest,* is a
right cheery philosopher. He has the composure of spirit, the calm
and strength of mind, that grow out of good humour, a good heart,

Shakespeare s Philosophers and y esters. $z i

and a quiet conscience. In the thickest of the sea storm' he has a
manly, encouraging, and even a humorous word. In the lowest of
the King's dejection, and deepest self-reproach, he supplies hopeful
thoughts and exhilarating topics of discourse. His offered consola-
tions to his drooping royal master, when they are shipwrecked on the
island, are instinct with kindly and sensible matter : —

Beseech you, sir, be merry : you have cause

(So have we all) of joy ; for our escape

Is much beyond our loss : our hint of woe

Is common ; every day some sailor's wife,

The masters of some merchant, and the merchant,

Have just our theme of woe : but for the miracle,

I mean our preservation, few in millions

Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigh

Our sorrow with our comfort.

His healthful conscience permits him to find hopeful aspects in all
surrounding things, and to discover sources of cheerful fancy in what-
ever he meets. " How lush and lusty the grass looks ! how green !"
He has abounding hope ; and despondency never owned him for a
bed-fellow. He devises whimsies for amusing his master's atten-
tion ; and proposes Utopian schemes of government to divert his
melancholy. He is a true picture of a sweet-natured man, and
whose sweet nature makes him a perfectly delightful companion —
one of the happiest consummations that philosophy can achieve.

Lord Lafeu, in the play of "All's Well that Ends Well," is somewhat
akin to Gonzalo in the spirit of his philosophy ; but the character is
greatly more developed, and the situations in which it figures afford
far ampler scope for diversified attributes, with variety of speech and
demeanour. Lafeu, like Gonzalo, is a faithful friend and servant to
a kingly master ; and, like him, seeks to alleviate the sufferings he
would fain see removed. But beyond this the resemblance in a
measure ceases. Lafeu is greatly more irritable than Gonzalo.
While this latter maintains his sweet temper through all the mockery
and worrying of the witling nobles (Antonio and Sebastian), they
would not have ventured twice upon this course with Lafeu: he
would have sent them flying. He loses his equanimity more than
once — nay, perpetually — in his disgust at the poltroon Parolles's
vapouring pretensions. Lafeu is impressionable, excitable; full of
animation and eagerness. His is a cheerful philosophy ; but it is
brisk, warm, impetuous — like his own disposition* He is a genial,
impulsive man ; full of kindly feelings and generous emotions.

In his first scene he utters a sentence that contains distinctly the

322 The Gentleman $ Magazine.

philosophy of an affectionate-hearted, yet a cheerful-hearted man ;
where he says : " Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead ;
excessive grief the enemy of the living." The touch of petulance
that characterises Lafeu's manner is extremely natural. This is one
of his summary speeches : — " A good traveller is something at the
latter end of a dinner; but one that lies three-thirds, and uses a
known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should be once heard,
and thrice beaten/' Lafeu's estimate of the scoundrel Parolles is full
of shrewd perception and knowledge of character. When Bertram
observes, on behalf of his bragging parasite, " It may be you have
mistaken him, my lord," the discerning soldier-veteran replies, u And
shall do so ever, though I took him at his prayers. Fare you well,
my lord (Bertram) ; and believe this of me, there can be no kernel in
this light nut : the soul of this man is his clothes : trust him not in
matter of heavy consequence : I have kept of them tame, and know
their natures." And then, how gentlemanly the contempt with
which the old nobleman turns upon the fellow himself, with " Fare
you well, monsieur : I have spoken better of you than you have or
will deserve at my hand ; but we must do good against evil." And
afterwards, when the unmasked coward and bully comes begging of
him, how playfully the good old lord gives knavery a hit and Fortune
her due in his first speech — not recognising Parolles. But then,
suddenly calling him to mind, bantering him about his " drum ;" and,
lastly, upon finding that the poor wretch is indeed in misery and
starving, relenting with true Christian toleration and mercy, and with
the magnanimity of true courage. Even when he believed him to be
some casual beggar he gives him an alms ; but upon discovering him
to be the impostor he knew of old he can find charity even for him.
This is true philosophy, the large philosophy of forbearance and
compassion for folly, even for error. This is the short scene itself,
which I must take leave to quote; it so well shows Lafeu's fine-
hearted philosophy. Parolles approaches him, crawling, and saying : —

My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratched.

La feu. And what would you have me do ? 'Tis too late" to pare her nails
now. Wherein have you played the knave with Fortune that she should scratch
you ; who herself is a good lady, and would not have knaves thrive under her ?
There's a quart d'ecu for you : let the justices make you and Fortune friends : I
am for other business.

Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one single word. My name, my good
lord, is Parolles.

Lafeu. Cox my passion ! give me your hand. How's your drum ?

Par. O, my good lord, you were the first that found me.

Lafeu. Was I in sooth ? And I was the first that lost thee. Well, sirrah,
inquire farther after me. Though you are a fool and a knave, you shall tat.

Sliakespeares Philosophers and Jesters. 323

Falstaff— immortal Sir John Falstaff — must certainly come into
the list of Shakespeare's philosophers. The fat knight is an embodi-
ment— an incorporation of the Epicurean philosophy. Ease is his
study ; sensuality his rule of conduct ; luxury his principle ; enjoy-
ment his faith ; self-contentment his religion. With what a solemn
weight of witty argument he pleads the justice of ill-doing for the sake
of gain, and with what gravity of humorous casuistry he advocates
wicked pleasures ! How judicially he reasons the propriety of steal-
ing, and how ingeniously he maintains his rightful claims to good-
living, free-living, any living that is to him agreeable living ! When
he wishes Poins to succeed in prevailing upon Prince Hal to join in
the sport of highway robbery, with what heart of moral-sounding
speech he expatiates : —

Well (he says), mayst thou have the spirit of persuasion, and he the ears of
profiting, that what thou speak'st may move ; what he hears be believed ; that
the true Prince may (for recreation sake) prove a false thief : for the poor abuses
of tfee time want countenance.

What fine irony ; what exquisite sophistry he has ever at his com-
mand ! The perfect special-pleading on behalf of " Sherris sack " is
well known : and how craftily he glozes his own pet weaknesses upon
other occasions : — " If sack and sugar be a fault (he says), heaven
help the wicked ! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old
host that I know is ' doomed.' If to be fat is to be hated, then
Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved." The felicity of hypocrisy with
which he can extenuate his misdeeds soars into genius !

Dost thou hear, Hal ? Thou Jcnowest in the state of innocency Adam fell ; and
what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy ? Thou seest, I have
more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.

His impudence of candour almost commands respect, — it is so
bold : — as Lord Ellenborough said of William Hone upon his trial :
" His impudence is sublime !" Falstaff plainly proclaims that if he
go to the wars he "means not to sweat extraordinarily;" adding —
" If it be a hot day, an' I brandish anything but my bottle, I would I
might never spit white again."

His philosophy of parsimony is edifying. With the means of sup-
porting his income, he complains : " I can get no remedy against this
consumption of the purse : borrowing only lingers and lingers it out ;
but the disease is incurable."

How characteristic is his witty demand for benefit under the name
of justice ; where, boasting of having taken Sir John Colevile pri-
soner, he desires a reward for his achievement, thus : —

Let me have right, and let desert mount.

324 The Getitlemans Magazine.

P. John, Thine's too heavy to mount.
Fal. Let it shine then.
/\ John. Thine's too thick to shine.

Fal. Let it do something, my lord, that may do me good, — and call it what
you will.

How original and how ludicrous are his exclamations of regret ! —
"A plague of this sighing and grief! it blows a man Up like a
bladder ! "

His repentant qualms are edifyingly profligate in their motives for
reform ; and in their illustrations of virtuous resolve : — u I'll starve
ere 111 rob a foot farther. An' 'twere not as good a deed as drink, to
turn true man and leave these rogues, I am the veriest varlet that
ever chewed with a tooth." And then, the sleeve-laughing of his
penitence, when resolving to lead a better life, — " Well, I'll repent,
and that suddenly, while I am in some liking : I shall be out of heart
shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent" And what a
delicious cant of sanctified roguery there is in his declaring upon
another occasion : — " Well, if my wind were but long enough to say
my prayers I would repent"

His protests against the misdeeds of others are quite as full of
hypocrisy in fun and sham moralising : —

Ere I lead this life long I'll sew nether stocks and mend them, and foot them
too. A plague of all cowards ! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Is there no virtue
extant ? \Drinks.~\ Why, you rogue ! Here's lime in this sack too. There's
nothing hut roguery to be found in villainous man. Yet a coward is worse than a
cup of sack with lime in it. Ah ! a bad world, I say ! I would I were a weaver :
I could sing psalms or anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still.

His immortal philosophising upon " Honour," showing it to be a.
rank absurdity — a dream — a nonentity — is as triumphant a piece of
satire as ever was uttered : —

Can honour set to a leg ? — No. Or an arm ? — No. Or take away the grief of
a wound ? — No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then ? — No. What is honour ?
— A word. What is that word honour ? — Air. — A trim reckoning ! Who hath
it ?— He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it ?— No. Doth he hear it ?—
No. It is insensible then ? — Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the
living ? — No. Why ? — Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it.
Honour is a mere 'scutcheon ; and so ends my catechism.

His argument upon counterfeiting — upon shamming to have been
killed, in order to preserve life — real, dear life — is an unanswerable
digest of the " philosophy" of self-preservation : —

Egad, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot
and lot too. Counterfeit ? I lie : I am no counterfeit : To die is to be a coun-
terfeit ; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man :

Shakespeare s Philosophers and Jesters. 325

but to 'counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but
the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion ;
in the which better part I have saved my life.

That sage sentence — that " philosophy" of FalstafTs — " the better
part of valour is discretion," has passed into a proverb — as well it
may.

This great character's brilliant intellect not only sends forth those
lustrous coruscations of wit for which he is famed ; not only does it
irradiate with resplendent humour every object that comes within its
influence, but it supplies him with keen perceptions and accurate
amount of estimates, where the stock of brains in others is the
question. He has large sense, as well as dazzling wit ; staid under-
standing, as well as overflowing humour. I could almost say that
sagacity — natural sagacity — in Falstaff, and an uncommon vouch-
safement of the highest common sense, form rival accomplishments
to the opulence of his imagination and the efflorescence of his fancy.
His estimate of the characters and understandings of all his asso-
ciates and companions (from Prince Hal down to his serving man,
Bardolph) amounts to absolute instinct. To quote his own words to
the Prince, he might say of the whole squad of them : — " By the
Lord, I know ye ' all/ as well as he that made ye." All his comments
upon worshipful Master Shallow prove this in a remarkable degree.
Perhaps the most acute of these is what he says upon the relations
between Justice Shallow and his serving-man, Davy. He says : —

It is a wonderful thing, to see the semblable coherence of his men's spirits and
his : They, by observing him, do bear themselves like foolish justices : he, by
conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man. Their spirits are
so married in conjunction with the participation of society, that they flock together
in consent, like so many wild geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, I would
humour his men with the imputation of being near their master : if to his men, I
would curry with Master Shallow, that no man could better command his
servants. It is certain, that either wise bearing, or ignorant carriage, is caught,
as men take diseases, one of another : therefore, let men take heed of their
company.

Yes, yes ! There can be no doubt of it — Sir John Falstaff cer-
tainly ranks among Shakespeare's very choicest "philosophers,"

Life in London.

V.— THE FIRST NIGHT OF THE SESSION.

COLD day — a bitter, biting wind blowing from the north-
east, and " shramming " the loungers in Palace Yard
and Westminster Hall, who wait patiently enough on
the 6th of February, 1873, in the hope of seeing some-
thing, they know not what, in the course of the afternoon. It is not
a little singular that the public seem never to be quite certain in their
own minds whether the Queen is or is not to open Parliament ; so
they troop down to Westminster, apparently uninfluenced by the
statements of the newspapers that Parliament is to be opened by
Royal Commission, as indeed is the case. How otherwise could you
account for their presence here to-day, when even a Cossack might
be excused for shivering ? Outside there is positively nothing what-
ever to see, for neither Mr. Gladstone, nor the right honourable
gentleman who leads Her Majesty's Opposition, nor any other of the
Parliamentary constellations, puts in an appearance when the Houses
are opened by Commission ; and as to their lordships of the Upper
Chamber — why, if a dozen or so hereditary legislators are present the
number is considered unusually large. But, despite Her Majesty's
absence, the ceremonial observed on this occasion is not absolutely
devoid of colour, and we will even be participators in it Up many
stairs, through a long corridor, so dimly lit as to suggest reminiscences
of a cathedral, and we are in "the House. " I envy the feelings of
that person who enters the House of Lords for the first time. He
sees a vast chamber so profusely gilded and bedecked with ornament,
so luxuriously furnished, and invested with so many traditions, as to
inspire him with reverence for those who are privileged to take part
in the debates. The throne and the two gilded chairs, occupied, when
Her Majesty is present, by the Prince and Princess of Wales, are
uncovered, and add thtir sheen to the general lustre of the chamber.
In front of the throne, and between it and the " woolsack," is a bench
upon which the Lords Commissioners will presently take their seats.
Indies file into the House by ones and twos ; an aged peer totters up
the floor of the House, and chats pleasantly to such of the audience
as he knows ; and the public quickly fill the gallery at the far end.

Life in London. 327

It wants full half an hour yet to the time when the Commission and
the Royal Speech are to be read, and as there is nothing to occupy
us — to borrow an expression from the theatre — " in front of the house,"
we will even go " behind," and glance at what is going on there.
The large ante-room at the rear of the throne presents a rather curious
sight just now, and one which will commend itself to the visitor.
Well may you hold your breath as you gaze upon the novel scene,
which it is given to very few " strangers " to witness once, perhaps,
in a lifetime. Do you see that amiable-looking gentleman at the other
end of the room, talking to an attendant ? We used to know him in
the Courts as Sir Roundell Palmer, but now he is Baron Selborne,
Lord High Chancellor of England, Keeper of the Great Seal, and, by
a constitutional fiction, of the Sovereign's conscience also. Although
Sir Roundell was raised to the Woolsack ever so long ago — we live so
fast nowadays that weeks go for months and months for years — he
appears in his official position as Parliamentary Head for the first
time to-day ; and, as you will have already observed, he wears the
black gown and the long flowing wig which he dons in the Court of
Chancery at Lincoln's Inn, or when he hears appeal cases in the
House of Lords.

Place for another great functionary, who is to play a leading
part in the piece. If you are a student of certain popular carica-
tures, you will have seen the portrait of a tall, well-made, grave-
visaged gentleman, whom the irreverent artist has drawn with his
hat very much over his eyes ; and you will at once recognise the
Lord Chamberlain. He is in morning dress at this moment, but
you have scarcely recovered from your surprise at finding yourself in
such close proximity to the high official at the mention of whose name
ballet girls tremble and stage-managers turn pale, when you see, with
astonished eyes, that his lordship has undergone a metamorphosis,
and now appears in a brave scarlet gown, trimmed with three bars of
ermine, as befits his rank as a viscount of the United Kingdom. As
two o'clock approaches there is something like excitement in the
apartment which I have taken leave to call the " green-room ;" the
attendants robe the Earl of Cork, the Marquis of Ripon, and
the Earl of Kimberley in their scarlet gowns, and hand them their
cocked hats ; a little procession is formed of the mace-bearer, the
purse-bearer, the Lord Chancellor, and the four other Lords Com-
missioners; and precisely as Big Ben chimes two, the representatives
of the Queen enter the House, bow gravely to the few peers present —
there are some fifteen in all — and then take their seats on the bench
between the throne and the woolsack. The formality of "opening"

3 28 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Parliament now begins, according to the precedents laid down, and
from which no departure is ever made. Still seated, the Lord
Chancellor, whose appearance is all the more striking because of
his sombre garb, informs their lordships, represented by eight
Conservative and seven Liberal peers, and a few bishops, that the
Queen, not finding it convenient to open Parliament in person,
has devolved that duty upon the Royal Commissioners, who are
named in the Letters Patent, which you may see spread out upon
the table in the middle of the House. This State document the
Clerk, Mr. Slingsby Bethel, now proceeds to read — each Com-
missioner taking off his hat as his name is mentioned by the official
at the table. Then you see a slim gentleman in black, wearing
knee breeches, silk stockings, and buckled shoes, and carrying a
wand, who, by dint of long practice, has acquired to a nicety the
difficult art of walking backwards without tripping or being tripped
up. This is Colonel Clifford, Deputy Usher of the Black Rod, a
post which his father, Sir Augustus Clifford, has worthily held for
many years. With sedate steps he now hies him to the other House,
to desire its members to attend in the House of Lords and hear the
Queen's Speech read by the Lord Chancellor ; and in a parenthesis-
let me note that when the Queen is present the Commons are com-
manded to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers*
while by the Royal Commissioners their attendance is only desired.

In the Lower House the members have been gathering fast for the
last hour, waiting for the summons from the Commissioners ; and as,
unlike Sir Boyle Roche's bird, we can be in two places at once — in
the spirit if not in the flesh — let us for a brief quarter of an hour see
what is doing in the Lower House. The first member to make his
appearance in the Parliamentary arena is Mr. George Dixon, one of
the three members for Birmingham, and a lasting example of the
advantage to be derived from taking up a particular subject and
" sticking " to it. Mr. Dixon is a shining light of the Birmingham
Education League, and he has made the educational topic the
hobby-horse upon which to ride into something very nearly
approaching to Parliamentary celebrity. By no means a brilliant
speaker, Mr. Dixon has worked at this one subject until he knows
every phase of it by heart, and he " orates " upon it with consider-
able satisfaction to himself and not a little to the admiration of some
of his Parliamentary friends below the gangway, among whom he
holds a respectable position. Almost simultaneously with the en-
trance of the Birmingham educationist comes Mr. Locke King, a
legislative veteran whose hair has grown grey in the service of the

Lift in London. 329

State, and who is shortly to receive a substantial token of the esteem
and regard in which he is held by his friends. Presently members
appear in shoals : Mr. George Bentinck, the member for West Norfolk,
taking his old place in the corner seat of the front Opposition bench
below the gangway, from whence he is wont to survey the House in
a sternly-paternal manner, and to glance around him with much the
same hauteur as that exhibited by a "heavy father" on the stage.
We all noted the absence on the opening day of the mercurial
member for Whitehaven, whose aspiration it is to be a thorn in the
flesh of Mr. Gladstone and of his own chief as well. But the two
famous Leaders appear more amused than hurt at Mr. Cavendish
Bentinck's attacks, and the House in general laughs heartily at them,
to the great indignation and annoyance of the honourable gentleman,
who is Quixotic to the backbone. While we are regarding the fast
incoming members, we both see and hear a little disturbance outside,
and the cry of "Black Rod!" comes in stentorian tones from the
mouth of Mr. White, the principal doorkeeper, and, it may be added,
the whilom contributor of the clever sketches of Parliamentary life
and manners which used to appear in a now defunct illustrated
paper. The doors are hastily closed, and the key is turned upop
" Black Rod," who thereupon gives three knocks on the portal with
his wand, and craves admittance. Looking through a little eyelet,
not unlike that which you may have seen in a prison cell, the official
within the House first ascertains beyond a doubt that the applicant
is what he represents himself to be, and then admits him; upon
which "Black Rod" walks up the floor, making obeisance three
times, and, having arrived at the table, informs the Speaker of the
nature of his business, and then backs out of the House. Prayers
have been previously said; the Speaker, upon the appearance of
" Black Rod," has taken his seat in his chair after sitting a short
time at the table, and now leads the way to the Upper House,
preceded by the Sergeant-at-Arms, Lord Charles Russell, who
carries the heavy mace, and followed, in rather disorderly
fashion, by perhaps one hundred members, who range themselves as
best they may at what is by courtesy called " the bar," but which in
reality is more like a sheep-pen than anything else. This rush to the
bar has some affinity to a school " scramble," and those engaged
appear to derive as much entertainment from it as do our young
friends at Dr. Whackem's when participating in a distribution of
sweets. The poor Speaker is not better treated than the most modest
and unassuming member pf the Legislature ; indeed, he is rather
worse off than the others, for he stands in the front row, and must

330 The Gentlematis Magazine.

consequently put up with a great deal of inconvenience in the shape
of pushing about Comparatively few well known faces are seen
among that struggling crowd at the bar; but you cannot help
noticing the fine head and strongly marked features of that staunch
defender of the Church, Mr. Beresford-Hope, whom Mr. Disraeli
cruelly credited with possessing " Batavian grace ;" while behind him
is Mr. Peter Rylands, the Radical member for Warrington, who, as
an " independent " representative, sitting among the Irreconcilables
below the Ministerial gangway, seems never to have made up his
mind whether to defend or attack Mr. Gladstone. Watchful of every
word contained in Her Majesty's Speech, stands Mr. Edgar Bowring,
who, inasmuch as he is nearly the first to take his seat in the other
House and the last to leave it, may be regarded as bidding, in this
undemonstrative and gentle fashion, for some position in which his
administrative capabilities may be exercised for the good of his
country. Only a few of the "country party w have followed the
Speaker into the Upper House, and these gentlemen are easily
recognised by the healthy bloom upon their faces and their general
" hearty " appearance, offering a striking contrast to those dark-visaged
French attaches up in the Diplomatic Gallery who are so regardful
of all that is going forward, as well as to that magnificently attired
gentleman near them. There is one very well known diplomat in that
gallery to-day — an English-looking man from head to foot, and
clad in our orthodox morning dress. This is General Schenck, the
American Minister, who listens intently to that curious literary com-
pound, the Queen's Speech, and for whom some references to a cer-
tain Arbitration have the greatest conceivable interest The United
States General is accompanied by his daughter, and there are also in
the ambassadors' gallery two or three other ladies, who, like the fifty
or sixty who have taken up their places on the red benches below,
are in morning dress. When the Queen opens Parliament the
peeresses troop down to the House clad in robes of those rainbow
hues prescribed by Fashion and Le Follcf, and then is the Upper
Chamber a sight to see — a garden of beauty and colour. But to-day
there are no gaily-dressed, diamonded peeresses, and consequently
only the faintest flush of colour illumines the House — indeed, but for
the presence of Admiral Fedrigo Pasha, who is bravely dad in a
dark blue uniform, rich with gold lace and bullion epaulettes, and
whose sword gleams with the same shining metal, the eyes of the
spectators would rest upon nothing more attractive in the matter of
costume than the scarlet and ermine robes of Her Majesty's Commis-
sioners, the Marquis of Ripon, the Earl of Cork, the Earl of

Life in London. 331

Kimberley, and Viscount Sydney (substituted at the eleventh
hour in the room of Viscount Halifax, who was not well enough to
be present). Taking a glance round the House, the rich, heavy
ornamentation of which strikes you the more you see it, we remark
that, with some half a dozen exceptions, all the lady spectators of
the show have ranged themselves on the benches of Her Majesty's
Opposition, and that nothing meets their wistful gaze but row after
row of unoccupied red leather benches.

Another singular event strikes us. On the episcopal benches are
seven bishops — neither more nor less — which carries us back in
imagination to the reign of the second James and his cruel persecu-
tion of Lloyd, Kerr, Turner, Lake, White, Trelawney, and the
primate Sancroft. Yes, to-day these right reverend prelates, arrayed
in lawn " white as the driven snow," might echo the Wordsworthian
chant, " We are seven," were it not for the fact that the utterance of
any sounds of harmony in this sacred chamber would be followed
by instant arrest and an uncertain period of imprisonment in that
" deep dungeon " specially reserved for the incarceration of political
offenders. The bishops are lucky, for among them sit the six
ladies to whom reference has been made, and who appear in no wise
disconcerted at being in such high ecclesiastical company.

The preparations for " opening the Houses " are now complete ;
the clock is on the stroke of two ; and the young Japanese students
up in the gallery yonder, who have been chatting in their native
tongue until now concerning our " barbarian " customs, cease talking,
while a respectful hush comes over the assembly, among which are
but fifteen peers, all told. The most prominent among these is
Lord Buckhurst, a true "